mm 






h^iimi 



m 



bmm 



Hi 



IVUTHOR, 




Class _/05ii 2 
Bonk - 7^^^ f fj 



cunaiiGHT DEFosav 




-^ 




-^:f:f:^m: 



Rhymes from the Rangeland 

Under the Sunny Blue Skies of the We^ern Plains, 
Mountains and Foothills; 



OR 



Following the Long-Horned Steer on the Trail, Over the 
Range, in the Stampede and the Roundup. 



A Book of We^ern Verses 

Small Edition 

By WESLEY BEGGS 

Or, as he is better known in the West: The Cowboy Poet 

AUTHOR OF 

"Away Out West Behind the Bars, or. The Shadows of the Great Stone Corral 

at Deer Lodge, Montana." 

In two volumes; each one complete in itself. 

BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED 

Illustrations by Frank L. Philips 
Engravings by Cocks-Clark Engraving Co. 



I9I2 

The Ea^wood-Kirchner Printing Company 

DENVER. COLORADO 






Copyright, 1912, by Wesley Beggs 
All Rights Reserved 



(gCI.A332125 



To my zvife and my children, 

To the Frontier man, 

To the Pioneer man, to the Cowman 

and Cowboys; 

To all who have traveled the great Trails 

of the West, and the South, 

Reaching up to the great Range Land; 

This Book is Sincerely, 

Respectfidly and Affectionately 

Dedicated by the Author. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Explanation 9 

A Talk With My Readers n 

Go to It, Old Bronk, I Have Called You 19 

The Merry Old Roundup Gives the Best Exhibitions of All 21 

Twenty Years Ago 23 

Oh ! Those Days in North Dakota 27 

The Bucking Broncho 33 

The Cowboy's Last Ride 35 

The Cow Girl 37 

A Talk With an Old Friend 38 

Leaving Deer Lodge Prison 40 

A Stampede in Texas 44 

The Work of a Bad Cowboy 46 

The Work of a Good Cowboy 46 

Go Chum With the Geysers Awhile 47 

To My Indian Friends 5^ 

When Your Hull Begins to Roll 5i 

They Sent Me Right Over the Road 52 

A Hunk of That Old Pumpkin Pie 57 

In the Bad-Lands 59 

He Was Going Some for a Preacher 60 

Hurrah for Old Montana 62 

Lines to a Prisoner 65 

A Lonely Grave Out West 66 

Verses to the Warden of Prison 67 

That Old Sheepherder Man 68 

In Jail at Big Timber, Montana 70 

To Ride Away Out West (Song) 72 

The Gems of Old Montana 76 

The Indian Story of Custer's Last Battle 77 

We Have Them All at Deer Lodge 81 

The Lone Cabin on Bridger Creek 84 

When the Bronk Begins to Bawl 85 

How Are You Fixed for Straw? 87 

The Old Slop Mule at Deer Lodge 90 

Malugian at Great Falls, Goes to the Circus 93 

On Mt. Powell, Montana 97 

The Boys at Billings 98 



vi. 

PAGE 

Farewell, Titanic, Proud Ship of the Sea lOO 

The Knot That Hands Have Tied lOi 

The Old Stockade Corral 102 

In Those Old Roundup Days ( Song) 105 

Down at the Alamo ( Song) 108 

The Cowboy's Song to His Herd no 

The Rustler Gets the Blame m 

Getting My Old Calf Pants Washed .112 

Early Days of the Cherokee Strip ii3 

Stolen Shoe Strings 116 

Naming the Baby 121 

Tar Daubers of Shady Bend 124 

A Stampede in North Dakota 125 

When Lillie Roundup Throws Her Rope 129 

Montana, the Gem of the West 132 

Drifting Around I35 

The Wife That I Loved So Well (Song) 136 

A Happy Home 141 

Darkies Leaving Oklahoma (Song) I44 

That Bronk Will Throw His Rider Away out in Beulah Land 

( Song) 146 

The Land That I Love (Song) 148 

Home on the Rangeland 151 

The Locoed Sheep ( Song) 152 

The Cowboy's Last Retreat I53 

Farewell to Montana, the Gem of the West 156 

Oklahoma, Meaning Beautiful Land (Song) 158 

Flanigan's Pancake 160 

Give Me the Woman Who Loves the Fresh Air 162 

On the Bellefouche Far Away 164 

When Lovina Was My Sweetheart So Many Years Ago (Song). 167 

Leaving the Old Farm for the City 170 

The Horrors of a Prison Cell 174 

Just To Be a Rancher's Wife 178 

Far From My Happy Home ( Song) 180 

To the Cranky Freight Agent 183 

Farewell to My Saddle and Rope 185 

The Morning Glory Hills 188 

To the Public 191 



njLUSTRATIONS. 



Frontispiece— The Author Facing Title Page 

'T'U ride you, old bronk, to your death" 20 

"And I'll ride your bronk for dough" 34 

"When the steer's a flying circus" 50 



^ 



^ 



76^ 



'A mother's son is sleeping here" 66>' 

Bridger Creek Falls 

The Old Stockade Corral 102^ 

"My eyes have viewed the roundup camp" 107 

"And they ran for nearly forty miles through country rough 

and strange" • 126"^ 

"And some girl will find a landing when the bronk begins to 

bawl" ^46>'^ 

The Old Stockade Ranch Buildings i56|^ 

The Cowboy ^^ , 

Rock House on Bridger ^^^^ 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE 

OR 
EXPLANATION. 



I do not suppose anyone has ever written a book 
without first having- reasons for so doing. 

So I have reasons why this one should make its ap- 
pearance. I do not claim but little merit for these poems. 
Consequently, I have no apologies to make to the public. 
I will say very few of them have ever been published. 
Quite a number have been written and handed around 
among the boys. 

Now, I leave out many of the Cowboy phrases, or 
slang words, believing the book will be better and a more 
useful book without them. 

There's verses here that's brimming full. 

And some that's not so flush ; 
But not a word to cause your cheeks 

To mantle with a blush. 



A TALK WITH MY READERS 



I have often picked up a book with no illustrations 
and no pictures of the author, and I have thought how 
much better and interesting it would have been with a 
few illustrations and a correct picture of the author. 

When we read of a person we w^ould like to know 
how they look. Whether tall or short, and where they 
were born and under what conditions and surroundings 
they grew up to manhood or womanhood. So, in giving 
this book to the world you will find quite a number of 
illustrations; also a correct picture of the author. They 
will enable you to know me better and to get better ac- 
quainted with me. Also the conditions under which 
these pieces were written. I was born in Franklin 
County, Ohio, twelve miles from the city of Columbus, 
the capital of the state. 

My father was from the north of Ireland, born in 
Bally Carry, County of Antrim. My mother was of 
Irish descent, born in Guernsey County, Ohio. My pa- 
rents came to that part of the state in an early day. They 
were pioneers when Ohio was, or at least that part of 
the state was, a vast wilderness, nothing but timber and 
water. My parents tried to raise their children, or fam- 
ily, well, which consisted of four children, two girls and 
two boys, I being the oldest boy. My parents were good 
and kind to their children. Mother was a very tender- 
hearted, compassionate, sympathetic woman. They had 
come to that part of Ohio in an early day and had strug- 
gled with poverty and hardships such as is common to 
a new country. It was here, in a little log cabin with a 
great big fireplace, I was born. My earliest recollections 



are a few apple trees growing near the house and a corn- 
field, which came up near the cabin, and a little patch of 
clover where the pigs and calves and the colts were kept. 

When I was small, a mere child, I had a severe at- 
tack of fever and it settled in my heart and left it in a 
bad condition. And when I grew large enough to work 
it soon began to trouble me considerable. Father took 
me to old Dr. Waggenhalls, one of the best physicians 
in the city of Columbus, and upon making an examina- 
tion of my heart found it in a bad condition. He told 
father he thought he could help me some, but could not 
cure me, as I was incurable. This was very sad news 
to father, as I was the oldest boy and he had hoped T 
would be a great help to him. He wished that it might 
not be true and he sincerely hoped it was not. So, to 
satisfy himself, he took me to another eminent physician 
in the city. But he said the same as the other one did. 
Dr. Waggenhalls gave me medicine enough to last a 
couple of weeks and at the end of that time I was to 
see him again. This time my mother went with me. 
After some little time the doctor said the medicine had 
done all he expected it to do. Then mother said : "Doc- 
tor, can you cure my boy?" He answered her, "I can- 
not, he is incurable, though he may live to be quite old 
by taking good care of himself." This was too much 
for mother to hear — she wept bitterly. The doctor said : 
"Your boy must live an out-of-door life. It is no use 
to send him to school, an education will do him no good, 
confinement in a schoolroom or any other room, will only 
kill him. An open air life, feeding or caring for stock, 
is the best thing he can do." 

Now, I want to say if all the doctors in the world 
were as honest as old Dr. Waggenhalls I would have 



Xlll. 



more faith in doctors than I have. However, I took the 
doctor's medicine for one year and was not allowed to 
take any violent exercise or do any hard work, and as I 
grew to be bigger and stronger my heart did not bother 
me so much. But I never went to school but little, and 
my education in the schoolroom amounts to almost noth- 
ing, though I did go to school some, as I will tell you 
by and by what a hard whipping I got. When I got to 
be about fifteen years old I was helping to build fence, 
making rails, swinging the cradle in the harvest fields 
Also the old-fashioned reap hook or sickle. One season 
father, brother and I reaped eleven days, our wheat was 
blown down flat to the ground. But in this way we 
were able to save it all. I had learned that to the west 
of us lay the great plains of the Western world and the 
rocky-ribbed old mountains loomed up in all their grand- 
eur and greatness, and I longed to go and see them. 
I thought of the West, I dreamed of the West, and often 
imagined how beautiful the great plains must be and 
what a contrast from the heavy timbered country. All 
I then knew of the world was around my childhood 
home and I thought that it was grand. I would look 
at the glistening stars and wonder if they looked the 
same in the Far West as they did there. I have often 
stood at the gate in front of the house when the golden 
sun was beginning to sink behind the Western hills and 
wondered if I would ever see the great plains and the 
mighty mountains that were far to the west of us. So 
you see I am a Western man, and now for nearly twenty- 
seven years I have been from that land that gave me 
birth. But today as I sit penning these words there 
comes to me a longing to return and look once more 
upon the scenes of my childhood and again return to 
the land I love, the great West. As I think of home, 
father, mother, brother and sisters, and the old orchard 
and the meadow, and the sunny days of childhood, tears 
start from my eyes unbidden. And I long to look upon 
the old spot vv'here I first saw and knew mother and 
home. But alas ! I would not find them there. Father 



XIV. 



and mother sleep in mother earth. The old cabin has 
rotted down and I suppose not a particle of it remains 
today. The old lane where I used to drive the cows to 
and from the pasture has been changed, the old rail 
fence has been replaced by a wire fence. And I suppose 
I would not know the old place at all nor anyone living 
in the neighborhood. The schoolmates have all grown 
up and scattered all over the world. Many of them 
have been called to that bourne from whence no traveler 
ever returns. But such is the generation of flesh and 
blood, one cometh to an end and another is born. But 
to return to my story, I wanted to go West, but how 
could I leave my mother. I always loved her. But 
finally the time came for me to start to that land I 
thought so much about. 

It was in 1878 or 1879 I ^^^^ Columbus, Ohio, for 
Leadville, Colorado, and while waiting for the train I 
met a friend who asked me where I was g'oing. I told 
him to Leadville, Colorado, and he said : "You will 
make just a nice pot of soup for the Indians around 
Leadville who are on the warpath." But I was not the 
kind to be so easily turned back or defeated in my trip. 
I bought my ticket and boarded the train that was to 
carry me westward with a light and a happy heart. As 
she steamed away from the Union depot I took a long 
farewell to my native city and land, and as we pushed 
on westward through dense timber and over vast plains 
toward the old Rockies the scenery was immense and 
grand and beautiful. When we came to the great plains 
of Kansas what a sight greeted my eyes. Often I had 
pictured them beautiful, but my imagination was not 
strong enough to do them justice. Here was a prairie 
fire sweeping over the great plains and the sky was lit 
up by the light until it seemed that the horizon was 
bright with the morning sunrise, and I thought the 
spectacle was grand. I was now far from home, but I 
thought tenderly of the ones that I left behind. In one 
of my quiet solitudes I wrote the song that begins with 
this verse : 



I left my home a wandering lad 

And bound to see the world, 
While father said, "Ok, Tommy, dear, 

Your wandering flag unfurled; 
You have a father, good and kind, 

A mother old and gray, 
Her heart will break for you, my boy. 

When you are far away." 

I dearly love the West, every part of it is dear to 
my heart. In many of the Western states I have slept 
on my blankets beneath the wide-spreading roof of the 
heavens while the queenly moon in her brightness sailed 
up and up, hig'her into the beautiful, clear, moonlit sky, 
made so beautiful by her presence. Then the stars look- 
ing down from the arches above, like so many little 
golden lamps, impressed me with a desire to know more 
of these far-away suns ever twinkling and glowing like 
the bright eyes of seraphs looking down on us poor finite 
mortals below. Often I have heard the voice of a bird 
singing a few notes in the moonlight on the lone prairie. 
And when I camped on a creek where there was timber 
I could hear the soft whispering as if the trees were hold- 
ing communion together. Oh, there is a beautiful sweet- 
ness in a night slumber under such conditions and when 
awake you lay in your blankets meditating as in the de- 
lusion of a pleasant dream. And you are apt to think 
all these noises that are abroad and heard everywhere in 
the air are the voices of angels chanting their songs to 
charm, the ear of the sleeper who sleeps away out West, 
beneath the beautiful blue sky and the bright sparkling 
stars. Nature no sooner puts one set of children to sleep 
until another set comes on the stage of activity, as busy 
and as happy as the others. This great and wide West 
has charms for me which I have never found anywhere 
else. And I presume it is so with many others. Not 
long ago I read a Western story of a Western man and 
I think it would be well for me to relate it in connection 
with my Western experience. This man left his East- 



XVI. 



ern home many years ago to wend his way to the great 
Rocky Mountains; gold had not yet been discovered. 
The great railroads had not yet pushed their way across 
the great plains. The greed of the white man had not 
yet made the trail over the mountains a very familiar 
one. Traveling was attended with more or less danger 
in those days. This man and his partner who was trav- 
eling with him were camped on the flat of a little stream 
which at that time had considerable timber on it. And 
about the middle of the afternoon, and much to their 
surprise, they were visited by an old trapper and hunter 
who in his wanderings discovered the smoke of their 
campfire. He was a weather-beaten iron man of the 
solitudes of nature, who had w^andered away from his 
home in the Far East from civilization into that vast 
wilderness of desolation. 

After talking and asking a few questions about the 
East he shouldered his gun and started across the plains 
toward a belt of timber lying dim and shadowy like a 
low cloud upon the distant horizon. 

These men who were camped on the little stream 
watched him for an hour or more as he trudged away 
over the rolling plains, growing less and less to the view, 
until he became like a speck in the distance and finally 
vanished from sight altogether. These men said there 
was a sort of solitude or solemn feeling stole over them 
as this lonely hunter wended his way back into the deep 
solitudes of the prairie to be alone with nature, com- 
muning only with himself and the things that were scat- 
tered around him by the great Creator. Yet he seemed 
contented and happy. There is something in some men 
which drives them from^ society, to seek the treeless 
plains and the deep solitudes of the wilderness and moun- 
tains. The love of nature and the love of new adven- 
tures away from the haunts of civilization and settle- 
ments spur them on. It is in them, they love it and it 
must come out, and away to the wilds they go to live 
a life of isolation and quiet solitude. This is the old 
original instinct of man — you may educate him, polish 



XVll. 



him, clothe him in purple and fine linen, but still he will 
go off to the woods, the wilderness, and commune with 
new things. They cannot be contented to stay in one 
place, away back where people are thickly settled, but 
must push on westward to the frontier amid new scenes, 
new adventures and new^ dangers. This nas been my 
weak point. If I should call it so, my love for life 
amidst the solitudes of the wilderness or mountains, be- 
yond the border of civilization, has been overpowering, 
these many years have found me with a home on the 
border. 

So I have spent all my life in the Far West, as a 
hunter, a trapper and a cowboy. I have been in nearly 
all the Western states and territories from Ohio and 
Kentucky on the East to the Sierra Nevadas and Cas- 
cades on the West; from the sunlit Savannahs of Texas 
to the British line on the North ; in Indian camps, buffalo 
camps, mining camps and cow camps. Now you will 
be better acquainted with me and understand me better 
as you travel with me. You will notice the pieces to- 
ward the close of the book are of a more serious or 
thoughtful nature. This is because of the change which 
has taken place in me. By the experiences which I had 
passed through. From the cow range to the county jail ; 
from the jail to the penitentiary at Deer Lodge, Mon- 
tana, where I served a sentence of five years. I will 
tell you all about this in my other book, entitled, "Away 
Out West Behind the Bars — or the Shadows — of the 
Great Stone Corral at Deer Lodge, Montana." 

I think you will find it in many ways a better book 
than this one. In it are my best pieces of poetry. Some 
of them touching and tender. I will tell you about the 
shadows of prison life in the Great Stone Corral at Deer 
Lodge; of the men in stripes; what kind of men that 
fill our jails, our prisons and our penitentiaries. I will 
tell you what I think of the divorce evil. And last, but 
not least, I tell you how you may always escape the 
prison cell. Both prose and poetry. Some written in 
camp, some in the cell. 



XVlll. 



However, there are a good number of these which 
were written in prison. And many of these other pieces 
were written on the rangeland or in camp on the border. 

Here you'll find a few verses 

That were wrote on the trail. 
They grew in the sunshine, 

They were fanned by the gale. 
Get them and read them, 

And sing them if best 
To the tune of the saddle 

And the rhyme of the West. 

The Author. 



Go to It, Old Bronk, I've Called You, 



Go to it, old Bronk, I have called you ! 

Let the buttons roll off from my vest, 
For I'm here on the woolly old rangeland 

To ride the wild bronk from the West. 
They say the wild Cowboy is passing, 

But he lingers still here on the Plains; 
He still wears the schapps and the Stetson, 

And he still holds the old bridle reins. 

He still loves his old occupation, 

And he has no desire for a change ; 
He still loves the old chuck wagon 

And follows it over the range. 
Then, go to it, old Kid, I am to you. 

Let me have just a moment for breath, 
Till I get both my feet in the stirrups. 

And Fll ride you, old bronk, to your death, 

He still rides the grassy old rangeland. 

And I'm sure it is no narrow scope, 
And he still loves to bunch up the doggies 

And show his great skill with the rope. 
So, go to it, old bronk, I am: with you, 

Though the water gush out of my eyes; 
You will find I am still on the voyage 

When you reach the gateway of the skies. 

They say the wild Cowboy is passing, 

But I trust it is only a dream. 
I know that the world's a delusion 

And things are not just as they seem. 
But go to it, old bronk, I am with you. 

Though the buttons roll off of my pants; 
I will ride you today and tomorrow, 

And ride you at every odd chance. 



20 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

They say the wild Cowboy is passing, 

But I seen one not two weeks ago. 
He was there with both feet in the stirrups 

And his pockets well filled with the dough. 
Go to it, old bronky, I'll answer. 

Though the buttons roll off of my vest, 
For I'm here on the woolly old rangeland 

To ride the wild bronk of the West. 

They say there's no more pitching horses, 

And this is the way they decide, 
But I know an outlaw out yonder 

Who wmII give them a high crooked ride. 
They will need both their feet in the stirrups, 

And then a through ticket to town ; 
For as sure as you are a-living 

That young farmer gent will come down. 

The Cowboys are still thick and plenty. 

And are monarchs of all they survey; 
They are still on the range of the cattle, 

And here they are going to stay. 
Then shut up on this wild speculation 

And give us a moment for rest, 
And we'll show you we're in from the rangeland 

To ride the wild bronks from the West. 

The dry farmers are all looking skeery, 

And some of them look pretty sick ; 
You know they are all looking hungry. 

And of course will go out pretty quick. 
Then around the abandoned old homestead 

The Cowboys quite often will meet. 
And enjoy a good time in their parlor 

From the hot burning winds and the heat. 

No, I don't guess the wild Cowboy is passing, 
He still lingers here on the plains; 




"77/ Ride You, Old Broiik, to Your Death. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 21 

He still wears the schapps and the Stetson, 
And he still holds the old bridle reins. 

Then go to it, old bronk, I have called you, 
Though the buttons drop off of my vest, 

I am here on the woolly old rangeland 
To ride the wild bronk of the West. 



The Merry Old Round-Up Gives the Best 
Exhibition of All. 



Great exhibitions on the rangeland, 

In the spring, the summer and fall, 
But the ones on the merry old round-up 

Are the best exhibitions of all. 
See them go high, and go crooked ! 

See them sidestep, and sunfish, and fall! 
Ah! Yes, the merry old round-up 

Gives the best exhibitions of all. 

See the wrangler come in with the bronchos. 

Such beautiful, swift- footed beasts; 
Men have traveled a distance to see them — 

They have come all the way from the East. 
And they all, from the least to the greatest, 

With their stock of unlimited gall. 
Have declared that the merry old round-up 

Gives the best exhibitions of all. 

They may show you the sights of the city. 
And take you along down the row; 

You may pass through the door of the opera, 
And may pass through the door of the show. 

But follow the merry old round-up 

Through the cold frosty mornings of fall, 



22 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

And you'll find that the bronk and the Cowboy 
Gives the best exhibitions of all. 

The Wild West Show isn't in it, 

To me they are sorry and tame; 
But here on the woolly old rangeland 

We have them nerved up for the game. 
Then see them go high, and go crooked, 

Hear the groan, the moan and the bawl. 
Ah ! Yes, the merry old round-up 

Gives the best exhibitions of all. 

Hear the echoing call of the Cowgirl, 

As her wild broncho pierces the wind; 
See her off in the race with the others — 

It's a cinch she has now got them skinned. 
See them off for the old chuck wagon, 

Hear the roar, the yip and the call ; 
I tell you the merry old round-up 

Gives the best exhibitions of all. 

See them gather around the chuck wag-on 

And exhibit the skill of their luck; 
For the cook has a feast, great and plenty. 

To grace a good Cowpuncher's pluck. 
You will find them all brave, noble fellows. 

With a stock of unlimited gall. 
Which gives to the merry old round-up 

The best exhibitions of all. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 23 

Twenty Years Ago. 



I took a ride today, old Pard, 

Where I rode years ago ; 
I gazed upon the landscape there, 

When it lay deep with snow. 
I want to say there's been a change, 

The feed was once immense ; 
From here each way a hundred miles 

You could not find a fence. 

Some twenty years ago, old Pard, 

The land was full of game ; 
Many of them not very wild, 

And some were really tame. 
The deer, the elk, the antelope, 

Together there did roam ; 
It truly was a Paradise, 

And it their native home. 

Some twenty years ago, old Pard, 

The grass stood waving high ; 
But go and look at it today. 

If it don't make you cry. 
The rotten sheep has eaten it 

As bare as my old boots. 
And still they have them there today 

A-eating out the roots. 

The long-horned steer is gone, old Pard, 

But very few remain ; 
They crowded in their stinking sheep 

And drove them off the range. 
If I had a thousand bronks, old Pard, 

I know I couldn't sleep 
Until I would stampede them 

Right through a band of sheep. 

And then I'd keep them going, 
I would never let them stop, 



24 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Till every sheep was under 

And the bronchos were on top. 

I would run them up the valley 

And would chase them from the hills, 

And despoil the old range robbers 
Till every one was still. 

The owners, too, you know, old Pard, 

I would give a chance to sail 
At the end of a strong old picket line 

Tied to a broncho's tail. 
And when I'd freed the range of them, 

Then I would strut and crow. 
And the grass would grow, I know again, 

As twenty years ago. 

These herders with their sheep, old Pard, 

And low depicted mien, 
Have eaten off every blade of grass 

And every weed between. 
Not long will they keep herding sheep 

Upon these Western plains, 
. Until the reach their home corral, 

The asylum for insane. 

The Sheepman and the Cattleman 

Have had a dreadful muss. 
But the sheep have got the range, old Pard, 

So it ain't no use to fuss. 
Go round them sheep and bring them in, 

The range is dry and bare. 
You know, old Pard, I hate to see 

Those robbers starving there. 

The noble Red Man, too, old Pard, 

They drove him far away. 
And still they keep on driving him 

A little more each day. 
They took away their hunting grounds, 

VVhere the buffalo loved to roam. 
And drove them to another place 

Not fit for the Red Man's home. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 25 

'Jlie white man did it all, old Pard, 

On him I lay the wrong- 
In forcing the Red Man's heritage 

To sing the white man's song. 
They cheated and deluded them, 

To this you say *'ahem," 
But the devil he will deal with you 

As you have dealt with them. 

Not very far from here, old Pard, 

The Indian Nation lie. 
All decked with lovely foliage 

Beneath a sunlit sky. 
And there among the sun-kissed hills 

The Indians are corraled. 
Caught in the white man's round-up 

And drove to a fare-you-well. 

Everything we see around 

The white man's hands have made; 
They have mutilated Nature, 

And you know they have, old Pard. 
They have gathered in the mountains, 

And have fenced the rivers, too ; 
They slaughtered all our buffalo, 

And well you know it's true. 

The railroads spoiled our hunting grounds 

And split them wide in two ; 
The buffalo, deer and antelope 

From it then quickly flew. 
Then came the pale-faced hunter 

As hard as he could ride. 
And slaughtered them by thousands 

Just for their horns and hide. 

A few old rotten bones, old Pard, 

Is all that now remains 
Of that vast herd of buffalo 

That covered all our plains. 



RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

It really makes me sad, old Pard, 

To think it must be so, 
That the Red Man and the buffalo 

Must both together go. 

I have seen the fairest valleys 

Spoiled by the white man's hands, 
And Nature was mutilated 

Till it wasn't very grand. 
One would start to plowing, 

And another digging a well, 
And one a-building a cabin, 

And in it all would dwell. 

They would put a fence around it. 

Fence half the road at that, 
And in their old sod shanty 

Would live as poor as bats. 
The one cow on a picket line, 

Their horses on a rope, 
And soon they'd be too thin and poor 

To really make good soap. 

No more the scouts upon the plains 

Old Sitting Bull will spy; 
No more his canvas tepee 

Will light the evening sky. 
No more the Western rovers 

His wrinkled face shall see, 
For the great Sioux Chief, you know, 

Was killed at Wounded Knee. 

Gone are the elk and antelope, 

Now very few remain ; 
Gone are the savage Red Men • 

From off the Western plain. 
Gone are the shaggy buffalo 

That roamicd about so free 
From the sunny plains of Texas 

To each far-off spreading sea. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 27 



Oh! Those Days in North Dakota. 



Away up in North Dakota, in the year of eighty-three, 
When big game it was plentiful, oh, that was the place 

to be ; 
Away up in that country the skies are fair and blue, 
And money, too, was plentiful, but our neighbors they 

were few. 
I am thinking now of Dickinson, my old-time stamping 

ground, 
And a better town than Dickinson I'm sure could not be 

found ; 
The joints were throwed wide open and no sheriff had 

his say. 
In those days up in Dakota near the Bad Lands far 

away. 

I have traveled many thousand miles, but never yet have 

found 
A place just to my notion as the North Dakota ground; 
Her prairies were so beautiful, out-spreading far and 

wide, 
Where the curlews and the plovers in the wavy grass 

could hide. 
Her washouts and her coolies are something great and 

grand 
In the little Missouri country where the Killdeer moun- 
tains stand. 
Oh, those days in North Dakota, where the skies are 

fair and blue. 
When big game it was plentiful and the hunters brave 

and true. 

Talk about the graceful antelope, they truly did abound 
In the North Dakota country where the cannon ball is 
found ; 



28 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

I have seen them bunched together, four liundred in a 

band, 
A-roaming hither thither in this glorious good old land. 
If you want to take a trip, my boys, in land want to 

invest, 
Just figure with a hunter who has lived a life out West, 
When the joints were all throwed open and no sheriff 

had his say, 
In the North Dakota country, near the Bad Lands far 

away. 

With a roving disposition that would never let me rest 

I drifted for my fortune in the undeveloped West; 

I learned to set the beaver trap when earth lay white 

with snow, 
.\nd when the fur was sold or shipped I'd pocket up the 

dough. 
Oh, for those bright days back again when the buffalo 

used to roam 
y\cross the dreary old Bad Lands so close around our 

home ; 
Oh, those days in North Dakota, where the skies are 

fair and blue. 
When big game it was plentiful and our neighbors they 

were few. 

It seems that camping nowadays ain't what it used to be 

In the camp on Old Heart river in the year of eighty- 
three ; 

The very recollection of that buffalo steer and fries 

Brings a heaving at my bosom, and the water to my eyes. 

With a cup of good hot coffee in the morning, don't you 
know. 

The way that we would relish it, indeed, it was not slow ; 

I would like to live that life again, where the skies are 
fair and blue. 

When big game it was plentiful and the hunters brave 
and true. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 29 

Oh, you who live in cities where your theaters are so 

slow, 
With your prima donna round-ups, how little that you 

know ; 
Just go and seek some lovely place in a far secluded spot, 
Where Nature's tumbling over, it's the place you long 

have sought. 
Your youthful days will then return ; you'll feel them as 

of yore, 
When you wandered through the meadow field far from 

your cabin door ; 
I am sure you'll look more beautiful when the bloom of 

health returns. 
By romping round with Nature 'midst the flowers and 

the ferns. 

Oh, I love to romp with Nature away from folks and 

noise, 
With Nature just a-hugging me ; oh, my, it gives me joy; 
Then I feel that I am happy and can write a better 

rhyme. 
So I'd like to be a-living out with Nature all the time. 
I wish that I could always look out from the misty haze 
Upon that wild, wild country where I spent such happy 

days; 
Where the joints were all throwed open and no sheriff 

had his say, 
In that North Dakota country, near the Bad Lands far 

away. 

There was Charley Tear, an old friend, I want to speak 

of him; 
He was not built like old Dutch John, but he was tall 

and slim. 
Charley, do you remember the northern lights so bright. 
How the stars would shine and sparkle like great electric 

lights ? 
Do you remember Mrs. Smith, how badly she was scared. 
She thought the judgment day had come and she was 

not prepared? 



30 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Oh, those days in North Dakota, when the moon was 
[full and bright, 

When .the stars would shine and sparkle like great elec- 
tric lights. 

And there's the Cowboy Artist, too, he's one I do esteem, 
Some of his paintings almost speak, so true to life they 

seem ; 
He paints those twisting Western bronks away up in 

the air. 
And a rider on his back with quirt a- fanning of him 

there. 
They are so very true to life, the bronk a-coming high, 
You see an exhibition between the earth and sky ; 
Long may he live to use the brush, immortal be his name, 
Like glittering gold to live and shine on the firmament 

of fame. 

Yes, Russell is a whole-souled man who meets you with 

a smile. 
Who treats you as a friend, indeed, in true good Western 

style. 
Montana is his dwelling place and Great Falls is his 

home, 
And I give to him my best regards with a handshake all 

my own. 
Death-on-the-Trail, another friend, a hunter, too, and 

scout. 
He was an old-time frontier man who knew well all the 

route ; 
He now lies deep in Mother Earth, a-sleeping way out 

West, 
My sympathy won't wake him up, nor rob him of his 

rest. 

There's Llarry Snow, another friend, in Oklahoma's land. 
An Oklahoma boomer, too, whose path and trail has 

scanned. 
There sunlit fields of golden grain and vineyards do 

abound. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 31 

And where the apple, peach and plum on every ranch is 

found. 
Harry G., my old-time friend, is wife and children well? 
May peace and joy and happiness within your household 

dw^ell ; 
May sun-kissed cheeks and love-lit hearts give you their 

greatest share 
And guide you to that morning star that shines away 

up there. 

There's Morgan Frank, a friend of mine, an old-time 

honored friend, 
I have not heard from Frank for years, his life may had 

its end ; 
He had a great big Western heart that beat his bosom 

w^arm, 
A true child of the Western plains, of blizzard and of 

storm. 
And in the Black Hill's early day he was away up there 
A-hunting elk and buffalo, likewise the deer and bear. 
If he is dead, sweet be his rest; pray don't disturb him 

now. 
And may the Coming King with love place laurels on his 

brow. 

Oh, there's a host of old-time friends, I reach to them 

my hand. 
And some day I shall make a trip to that good old 

glorious land. 
I now look back on happier days and see the old-time 

faces. 
And sit with you, and talk with you, in old familiar 

places. 
And I often feel my heart rise up like a flapjack in my 

throat 
To give me a reprover of a letter I never wrote 
And sent to old-time honored friends, where skies are 

fair and blue. 
Where big game once was plentiful and the hunters brave 

and true. 



32 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Now some of these old pioneers lay with the silent dead, 
Their great big hearts beat warm and true until their 

breath had fled; 
And in the city of the dead there lies the last remains 
Of men as brave as ever lived or trod the Western 

plains. 
And you, oh cherished frontier men, a-sleeping way out 

West, 
With Western plains a-hugging you close to their loving 

breast. 
Give thanks to the Redeemer man, you sleep where skies 

are blue. 
Where tender hearts still think of you and men are brave 

and true. 

Now the antelope and buffalo gone, oh, what a mighty 

change, 
And most of the old-time pioneers have gone across the 

range ; 
Away across the Great Divide, beyond the peaks of snow, 
To a land where they cannot return, but where we all 

must go. 
Oh, do you dream in your last sleep of how you used 

to do 
When big game it was plentiful and the hunters brave 

and true ? 
But they are gone, sweet be their sleep, please don't 

disturb them now, 
And may the Coming King with love place laurels on 

their brows. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 33 

The Bucking Broncho, Dickinson, North 
Dakota. 



There was a bronk in Dickinson 

Which weighed a thousand pounds, 
And a harder pitching broncho 

In the world could not be found. 
They knew they had a pitcher 

And hard they tried to show 
That not a man in Dickinson 

Could ride him for the dough. 

But the woolly West has riders, 

And I want you all to know, 
They will ride your bucking broncho 

In a way that won't be slow. 
One day there came to Dickinson 

A Texas boy, Monroe, 
'Tut up," he said, ''some money, 

"And I'll ride your bronk for dough." 

Then the dollars they were counted, 

And soon the fun begun. 
And Monroe, the Texas puncher, 

Took a trip toward the sun. 
When they led out Mr. Broncho, 

They called him Fare- You- Well, 
Monroe soon took the saddle 

With a wild Comanche yell. 

Talk about your pitching^ bronchos — 

It surely was a, sight 
To see him yonder in the air 

A-tuming- left and right. 
Yet still Monroe stayed with him, 

And raked him flank and hip; 
He fanned him lively with his quirt 

And urged another trip. 

To the north side and the south side, 
And all about the town, 



34 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

He rode that pitching broncho 
Like a double- jointed clown. 

It was plain that Western outlaw 
Had done his level best, 

And that reckless Texas puncher 
Was there to stand the test. 

When he could not throw his rider, 

Then he tossed around his head. 
To pull him from the saddle seat 

And stamp him there till dead. 
But as he threw around his head 

He met that fearful spur, 
That rowled him up that old jawbone 

With blood and hair and fur. 

Then all about the town, my boys. 

He played another tune — 
It was not a floradora 

Nor the ragtime of a coon — 
But it was real old pitching, boys, 

Backed up by nerve and grit, 
But Bill was in the saddle sure 

To ride him till he quit. 

To the east side and the west side, 

Then all about the town. 
He rode that pitching broncho 

Till he squarely rode him down. 
Then he sprung from out the saddle 

And landed on his feet. 
While the people loud were cheering 

Till they shook the very street. 

If you have a furious pitcher 

That has never yet been rode 
Call on that Texas puncher. 

He has never yet been throwed. 
So here's to that old-time rider, 

Long may he live to ride. 
And find the trail to the home corral 

Across the Great Divide. 




'And I'll Ride Your Broiik for Dough. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 35 



The Cowboy's Last Ride. 

A young Cowboy rose early one morning 
And saddled his bronk for a ride, 

He hit the high hills and the valleys 
With Jimmy, his Pard, by his side. 

It was out on the Little Missouri, 

Where they went to look after some strays, 

And where the old mountains of Killdeer 
Loomed up a short distance away. 

They had left their camp early that morning, 
With their hearts very buoyant and gay ; 

They left like two bright, happy children 
Who were brimful and over with play. 

They rode the high hills and the valleys, 
But never a stray could they find ; 

They searched the deep coolies and washouts, 
Where many a cowtrail did wind. 

At noon they struck an old cowcamp 
And stopped to fill up on some chop. 

For the Cowmen are always big-hearted 
And will give you the best in the shop. 

And when they had eaten their dinner 
They started again on the range, 

But a cloud rolling up from cloudland 
Said the weather had took on a change. 

So they took from behind their old saddles 
A slicker to keep themselves dry, 

A protection from rain, wind or weather. 
No matter how hard it may try. 

But it happened, as it sometimes does. 
That the wind blew the rain all away 



36 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

And the boys still rode the prairie 
A-trying to look up the strays. 

But just as the sun was a-setting 

A saloon and store cabin they struck. 

"If we can't find the strays," said Jimmy, 
''We have found quite a rich streak of luck." 

So up they rode to the store cabin 

And unsaddled their bronks for the night, 

And a great big smoking hot supper 
Filled the boys with a happy delight. 

After supper they went to card playing 

And shuffled away until late, 
And for wild, reckless, careless Cowpunchers 

Could play at a pretty good rate. 

They had at the cabin strong whisky. 
And it got all the boys in a row. 

For Jimmy and Bill w^ere no cowards, 
But would fight like an old Texas cow. 

They had that night at the cabin 
A couple of pretty tough girls; 

Card playing, bad women and whisky 
Soon got the boys' heads all awhirl. 

The fracas then started in earnest 

And they pulled out their old forty-five, 

And Billy was shot through the body 
And never Vn^ouW go back alive. 

A sad, sad day when Cowpunchers 

Took Billy away to his rest; 
They stuck up a board for a headstone 

And planted a rose on his breast. 

Card playing, bad women and whisky 

Has often led Cowboys astray. 
And then their handy six-shooter 

Would put someone out of the way. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 37 

Quite often we talked of young Billy, 
'^ Who was shot in a low, drunken fight. 
Who early left camp in the morning. 
But never went back there at night. 

There we planted young Billy next morning, 

While the tears quite tenderly fell, 
And we left him to sleep in the bosom 

Of the West that he loved so well. 

The raindrop kissed the lily 

By the morning glory vine, 
And the lily kissed the ivy 

And the ivy kissed the pine. 

All were gweet and lovely 

Like a cloudless summer day, 
For the golden sun was setting 

And her jewels were at play. 



The Cowgirl. 



When Western winds would move the air 
Her tresses dark would flow, 

And fall upon her bosom fair 
Like shadows over snow. 



38 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



A Talk with an Old Friend. 



One day when I was roving on the foothills of the West 
I met young Henry Grammer, with spurs and schapps 

was dressed, 
And as we talked together of hardships on the way 
His mind went back to Texas and these words to me 

did say: 
'T would rather live in Texas than any place on earth, 
For it was the state of Texas that gave to me my birth. 

"I have been said to be a ranger upon her sunlit plains, 
And though I'm far from there today her memory still 

remains ; 
I have spread my old tarpaulin so often on her lawn, 
But now I sigh to think of them, for those bright days 

are gone. 
And I would rather live in Texas than any place on earth, 
For it was the state of Texas that gave to me my birth. 

''T'was on her wide prairies w^here the long-horned 

cattle ranged, 
But now the grass is all eat out, their feeding ground 

has changed; 
So I left my sunny southland to ride upon the Platte, 
Where the punchers are good rustlers and the cattle 

always fat ; 
But she cannot beat old Texas, she's the best place on 

the earth, 
For it was the state of Texas that gave to me my birth. 

*T have been up in Montana, away up on the line, 
Where the winter sun is waiting for the summer sun to 

shine ; 
Where the spring and fall and summer is but one long 

winter day 
And the aurora borealis brighten up the milky way ; 
So I would rather live in Texas than any place on earth, 
For it was the state of Texas that gave to me my birth. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 39 

"I have been in Colorado-, and I think she's mighty 

grand, 
Where the Httle streams are busy washing down her 

golden sand, 
And away up in Wyoming where the Devil's Tower 

stands, 
And it surely is a wonder if there's any in the land ; 
Yet I would rather live in Texas than any place on earth, 
For it was the state of Texas that gave to me my birth. 

"I have rode in Oklahoma, the land you used to roam, 
Four hundred miles of sunlit plains, a thousand more 

from home ; 
I have watched the little doggies grow up to g-reat big 

steers, 
But now the farmer with his fence has met the changing 

3^ears. 
So there is no place like Texas, she's the best place on 

the earth. 
And it was the state of Texas that gave to me my birth. 

'T have rode the Osage country, where the Indians ride 

and shoot. 
And •where the bucking broncho beats an airship on a 

toot; 
Where they all jump high and crooked like Oklahoma 

Dick, 
And the man that keeps the saddle is the one that's pretty 

slick. 
That's the way they do in Texas, twist and flop o'er all 

the earth. 
And it was the state of Texas that gave to me my birth. 

"At Oklahoma City, in the bucking contest there, 

I rode them high and crooked ancl I won their money 

fair. 
At old Fort Worth and Denison, and also Guthrie, too, 
In riding and roping took first prize when all were 

through. 
Soon I'll go back to Texas, take my old tarpaulin bed. 
And stay in the state of Texas where I was born and 

bred." 



40 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



Leaving Deer Lodge Prison. 

I had gone into the office to dress and put on my 
fine suit of clothes which the Deer Lodge prison fur- 
nishes to everyone who leaves that institution of crime, 
when in come Dan Tewey, the deputy warden. Speak- 
ing to the office man, he says : "Where's all this writ- 
ing Beggs has been doing?" I spoke up. "It is here in 
my pete (or box). Do 3^ou want to examine it?" "Cer- 
tainly I do. It all has to be read." 

I unlocked the pete and laid out my writings. 

With a look of amazement and surprise, he asked: 
"Is that all writing that was done here?" 

"Certainly," says I. 

"How long have you been at it?" 

"Ever since I have been here." 

"Well, you will have to leave it here so it can be 
read." 

"Oh, no. I don't do that." 

"I can't read that in a month." 

"I can't help that; I can read it in less time." 

"Why did you not bring this writing to the office 
so it could all be read?" 

"Because that was not my business." 

"Well, you will have to go out without it." 

"Well, I will not." 

(He goes to the phone.) "Mr. Conley, I can't read 
all this writing Beggs has in a month." 

Conley — "Read it, read it, if it takes two months." 

Tewey — "You will have to go and leave it here." 

"But I tell you I will not go and leave it here. I am 
in no hurry at all. I have spent five years here. I can 
spend another month, all right. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 41 

''You must go." 

"But I don't go until my writings go with me." 

Tewey picks up a piece and begins to read : 

''Come, look across the old cow range, 

I rode it years ago, 
Before the range was all fenced up 

And Cowboys had a show. 
Now, as we look we view the sight 

As through a hazy mist, 
For just as far as eye can see 

These fences do exist." 

Tewey — "Oh, that isn't bad. It is all right." 
"Certainly it is," says I. 

Tewey turns over a few pages and reads again. 
(Written on Mt. Pisgah, Cripple Creek, Colo.) 

Although I stand on Pisgah heights 

I see no promised land. 
But Cripple Creek, the mining camp 

Lies off to my right hand." 

"I don't see anything wrong with this writing." 
"Certainly you don't. I knew what to write and 
what not to write." 

Tewey turns a few more pages and reads : 

"This takes me back to childhood, 

And it makes the teardrop start 
To find these prison guards so wise, 

And I am not so smart." 

Tewey — "Well, you will have to leave it. It has 
all to be examined." 

"But I have told you I would not leave it. And I 
mean it, too. I am in no hurry." 

Tewey turns a few more pages and reads : 



42 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

''THE OLD CALF PANTS WASHED." 



go. 



''I send you in my old calf pants, 

The only ones I got. 
For three long months I've cherished them 

Until they got the rot. 

I hate to send themi in, you know, 

They are so smooth and slick ; 
They cover my long limbering shanks 

Whereon the calves do lick." 

Tewey — ^'Well, it is no use in talking. You must 

''But I am here to tell you I don't go." 

Tewey still keeps turning some pages, then reads : 

'Tick them up tenderly, up from their lair. 
Written quite splendidly, handle with care. 
Just give them a notice and pass them quick by ; 
You can't bluff the donkey, it's no use to try. 

"Here stands a guard, hero without any brains, 
He picks up a package, looks long and retains. 
Just then a sensation passes over his skin, 
He draws a long breath and at once pitches in. 

"Your nerves are not steady, your optic not good, 
I see you are shaking, I thought that you would. 
But, pardner, be careful as you search the resort, 
For it's not at all subject to this kind of sport." 

Tewey shuts up box, saying: "You must leave them, 
I tell you, and go.'' 

"No, sir. I will not go. Do you hear it? Take 
me inside, for I will never leave here until I have all my 
writing." 

"We v/ill send them all to you." 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 43 

''I will save you all that trouble. Take me inside. 
I am in no hurry. I am attached to the place. I have 
an interest here. Take me inside." 

''Well, take them, and go, and you have only a few 
minutes until train time." 

"Oh, I can make it." 

So I pulled off my old prison suit. A guard 
searched them. I put on my new ones, and they were 
dandies. A guard went with me to the depot, and with 
my gate money — $5.00^ — bought me a ticket to Butte. 

So now I am here at the depot. 

And I hear that the train is some late. 

I think if the trainmen don't hurry 
My clothes will soon go out of date. 

Well, those clothes began to fall apart before I got 
to Bozeman. A $2.50 suit and the state pays Conley 
$25.00 for the suit. 

There is grafting in the prisons 

In a hundred different ways, 
And the system of the grafters 

Is a graft that always pays. 

(Bring on another prisoner) 
While the mills of the gods 
Grinds out another toll. 



44 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



A Stampede in Texas. 

We started from Mobeetie up to the northern range 
With a lively bunch of cattle and a boss called Jim Ma 

Lange ; 
We all were good old Cowboys who loved to ride and 

roam 
Along that great old cattle trail so many miles from 

home. 

We traveled on and on that day and bedded for the 

night 
On the sunny plains of Texas, it was a lovely sight; 
A jollier band of Cowboys you never well could find, 
To each other we were loyal, to a stranger we were kind. 

We early left that bedding ground just at the break of 

day, 
We traveled o'er the sunlit plains all dressed in Nature's 

way ; 
And listened to the Western winds and songs of the 

curlew, 
And whiled away the hour of noon where sweet wild 

flowers grew. 

Boys, it was a lovely evening when we pulled into camp, 
The mocking birds were singing where we hung our 

signal lamp; 
But from the west there came a cloud as black as raven 

night. 
And we boys made things all ready for a ride before 

daylight. 

Soon our cattle they grew frisky and at once began to go 
Right back to Mobeetie with a gait that wasn't slow; 
The rain it fell in torrents and the lightning freely 

flashed, 
Every Cowboy on his broncho to the front he boldly 

dashed. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES -15 

The stampede it was sudden, every steer was on the fly, 
Their heads were Hfted upwards and their tails were 

lifted high; 
They leaped, they ran across the plains for forty miles 

or more, 
And such another stampede I never saw before. 

Every boy soon got the saddle, every bronk was on the 

fly. 

Everything was total darkness, not a star was in the sky ; 
We followed them till morning, every bronk was at his 

best. 
We determined not to leave them while a heart beat in 

our breast. 

We finally stopped those frightened steers and brought 

them to a stand 
Just as the morning sun arose upon that Western land ; 
Many a steer that night lay dead and many a broncho 

bled, 
And one of our noble boys that night lay numbered with 

the dead. 

No more he'll saddle up his bronk beneath that sunlit sky, 
No more he'll hear the clinking hoofs of cattle on the fly; 
No more he'll ride at breakneck speed across the track- 
less plains, 
A surging host of cattle wild trod over his remains. 

Come all you good old Cowboys, I look to you with 
pride. 

Who herd the long-horned cattle and the Western bron- 
cho ride; 

Here's health to you, my jolly boys, who roam the 
Western wilds. 

And luck to all the frontier men who love our good old 
style. 



46 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



The Work of a Bad Cowboy. 

Put on the blanket and saddle, 

Start them up with a whoop and a yell; 
Persuade them, tempt them and shove them 

To the depth of a real human hell. 

Go gather them in from the midnight, 
Go hurry them out of their bed. 

Go show them the glass, sparkling goblet, 
Go show them the wine that is red. 



The Work of a Good Cowboy. 

Go tell them the death cruel serpent 

For a moment is taking a nap, 
To arouse in the glow of the mornmg 

And hurry them on through the gap. 

Go put on the schapps and the Stetson, 
Go heed the loud call of His word, 

For a million today is a-drifting 
And straying away from the herd. 

Go search the deep coolies and washouts, 
Where they gather resigned to their fate; 

Go hurry them out to the windbreak 
On the trail of the old home gate. 

Go nail up the bars at the bog-hole. 
And feed the young calves from a pan, 

For the whole drunken tribe of creation 
Will break in every night if they can. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 47 



Go Chum with the Geysers Awhile. 



You no doubt have heard of the Yellowstone Park, 

The great Wonderland of the world ; 
This great Wonderland, the pride of the West, 

Has its flaglets of beauty unfurled. 

The greatest of wonders in the Yellowstone Park 
Are the wonderful mammoth hot springs; 

Here deep-heated water pours vapor and steam 
While the waste away water most beautifully sings. 

There is ravishing beauty in the Yellowstone Park, 

For Nature has done her work well ; 
The mountains and hilltops, rivers and rills, 

With beauty enchanting doth swell. 

There's canyons of beauty in the Yellowstone Park, 

Outshining the jewels of queen ; 
Where sapphires of beauty are hidden from sight, 

With beautiful diamonds between. 

There's the Yellowstone Canyon in that great Wonder- 
land, 

Where beautiful loveliness flash ; 
Where swift, angry water with froth and with foam 

The walls of their prison house lash. 

Oh, that Yellowstone Canyon, the gem of the Park, 

With wonderful wisdom was made; 
And flowers, sweet flowers, surrounded with ferns. 

Grows there in the dark cedar shade. 

Oh, that canyon so deep, so awful, so grand, 
That the brain of the human soul reels; 

And as they look dow^n in the deep, dizzy gorge, 
The hand of solemnity feels. 



48 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

There are beautiful streams in the Yellowstone Park 
That tumble through mountains of snow; 

That plunge over cataracts rugged and rough, 
With never a stop in their flow. 

A beautiful sight in the Yellowstone Park 

Are the geysers when seen in their play ; 
The Giant, Old Faithful, Artemesia, The Fan, 

Are awful and grand in their way. 

You will surely feel weaker in your effort of strength 
When the Fire Hole and the Hell Hole you see, 

And think when these wonders their swaddling bands 
burst. 
Oh, where will humanity be? 

The transcendant beauty of the Yellowstone Park 

Bedazzles the far-seeing eye ; 
Where the blankets of beauty over Nature is spread 

And the hand of the Master is nigh. 

No beauty in city, in the village or town 
With the Yellowstone Park can compete; 

Here rivers and creeks, rivulets and rills. 
In mystified beauty doth sleep. 

There is something inspiring in the Yellowstone Park 

That fills with a silent delight ; 
And when I reflect on such picturesque scenes 

My trouble and sorrow takes flight. 

The natural scenery in the Yellowstone Park 

Is lovely, majestic and grand ; 
Such scenery I love, it fills with delight. 

For it is of no mortal man's hand. 

It is surely great pleasure in the Yellowstone Park 

Your canvas to spread on the green. 
And spend the swift hours in laughter and song, 

And talking of what you have seen. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 49 

Then life in its beauty will kiss your pale cheeks, 

And drive from your soul all its care ; 
Give a hearty, stout look with a sweet, cheerful smile, 

As you breathe in the pure scented air. 

It is here in their beauty the geysers do spout 

And toss up their silvery spray, 
And gleam in the light of the brilliant old sun 

Like showers of jewels at play. 

That woe-begone look that mantles your face 

You will scare far away with a smile 
If you will but come to this great Wonderland 

And chum with the geysers awhile. 

Where Nature, with beautiful garments are decked. 
And the geysers do spout at their best; 

Where the Angel of Peace plants the flowers of love, 
To bloom on the trail of the West. 

So pack up clothing, your hammock and tent 

And away to this Wonderland go, 
To look on the ravishing beauty of earth, 

Spread here for poor mortals below. 

Come, roll up your blankets and gather your wraps 

And take a glad look at the pile. 
And hit the old trail to this great Wonderland 

And chum with the geysers awhile. 



50 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



To My Indian Friends. 

God made you, my brother, in His own perfect way, 
And on no reservation compelled you to stay ; 
But through the wide world you could rove at your ease, 
Could ride, or could walk, or could go as you please. 

As free as the wind o'er the plains of the West 
Was freedom implanted to thrive in your breast; 
To be a free Indian, to think or to talk. 
To travel or to stop, to ride or to walk. 

But on no reservation He compelled you to stay. 
To shorten your years or to sadden your day; 
But He made you as free as the dove on her nest, 
To love and to cherish the seed in your breast. 

But I see you corralled, and it's here you must stay 
Till your form becomes bent and your hair becomes gray. 
The round-up has caught you and gathered you in 
For greed and for profit, for your scalp and your skin. 

Your buffaloes are gone, now no more to be seen. 
Those huge shaggy fellows that once fed on the green ; 
The white man he did it, no blame lies on you, 
He went to the slaughter, to slay and pursue. 

Your wigwams are scattered, your braves are all gone, 
Like the elk and the bear, like the deer and the fawn ; 
Gone are Red Men from the plains of the West, 
Who were brave, true and loyal to the core of their 
breast. 




'When the Steer's a Fixing Circus-'' 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 51 



When Your Hull* Begins to Roll. 

I said that I could ride him 

And would show them that I could, 
But the way I'm pulling leather 

Looks as though I won't make good. 
Many other riders found 

They could not reach the goal 
When the steer became a circus 

And their hull began to roll. 

It is surely recreation, 

In a frantic sort of way. 
To saddle up a long-horned steer, 

If on him you can stay. 
It's a cinch he'll come a- jumping, 

And you'll find the badger hole. 
When the steer's a flying circus 

And your hull begins to roll. 

Talk about your broncho busting, 

But a steer will take the prize, 
When he's way up yonder rolling, 

Water gushing from your eyes. 
When he's forty leagues from landing, 

And all tied up in a knot. 
The steer will be a winner 

And will drop you on the spot. 

I don't begrudge the jackpot. 

Nor the wager on the side, 
But admire the long-horned Texas 

That put up the hardest ride. 
You may find yourself far-reaching, 

But you cannot reach the goal, 
When the steer becomes a circus 

And your hull begins to roll. 



*"Hull," old saddle. 



52 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



They Sent Me Right Over the Road 

My home now is here in prison, 

They lock me up tight every night ; 
Hard work and no payday a-coming, 

I never can think it just right. 
It is here I worry till morning, 

And get up without any rest; 
For I feel the barbed arrow of sorrow 

A-piercing deep into my breast. 

Oh, why am I here in this prison, 

Locked up in this cold house of stone? 
Oh, why am I here serving sentence? 

Oh, why am I not at my home ? 
I have there a wife in her sorrow. 

Who is bearing her burden of grief. 
Oh, I would that I only could lift it 

And bring back the smiles of relief. 

It would grieve my old father and mother, 

Were both of them living today. 
To think that I shut my eyes tightly 

And wandered so far from the way. 
But the seed of transgression is certain. 

And I'm reaping the crop that I sowed; 
And serving my time here in prison. 

For they sent me right over the road. 

As I think of the home of my childhood 

My heart with its memories are filled, 
But gone like the buds of my childhood. 

Or roses that once were distilled. 
But I see her tonight in clear vision. 

Dear mother, and the love she bestowed. 
Oh, the burden of grief would be heavy 

If she knew the wild seed that I sowed. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 53 

My dear wife, I dearly have loved her, 

And courted the smiles of her face, 
And why am I now taken from her 

And locked up in this cold, horrid place? 
My children they sadly do miss me, 

No papa to climb on his knee ; 
Oh, the burden is heavy, dear children, 

The burden on you and on me. 

Now will you, my dear ones, forget me. 

And banish me out of your mind, 
Because I was put into prison 

When sinful and selfish and blind ? 
The hues of the rainbow have faded. 

Its lustre no more can I see ; 
Oh, could I but feel the great fullness 

And be what I once used to be. 

I realize now in my blindness 

That m}^ happiness greatly is marred. 
And I've proved it right here in the prison 

That the way of the transgressor is hard. 
And here I am sitting with stripes on 

A-reaping the crop that I sowed, 
And must harvest it all here in prison, 

For they sent me right over the road. 

Despair greets me early each morning, 

And loneliness stands by my side; 
Such cellmates as these are not pleasant, 

But yet they forever abide. 
My sorrow seems deeper and fiercer 

Than the waves of the angry old sea. 
As I think of my long, dreary sentence 

And wonder how long till I'm free. 

My sadness is sickening and painful. 

And the burden is heavy to bear, 
As I think of my friends who have left me 

And none of sorrow will share. 



54 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

In a cold, damp cell of a prison 

Is where I must smother my shame, 

While the great high wall that surrounds me 
Throws the shadow and blot on my name. 

Oh, could I but see you, dear children. 

And fondle you long on my knee, 
And circle my arms well around you, 

Oh, you don't know how happy I'd be. 
Ybu can breathe the pure air of the mountains 

And your troubles to each other tell, 
But I am distressed and forsaken, 

And alone in this dreary old cell. 

My home and my wife and my children 

I love as no other can love. 
And although a poor convict in prison 

Ask God to look down from above — 
To protect and keep them together 

And not let them go far astray, 
Those sweet little blossoms of childhood 

That are sad and so lonely today. 

This great cruel wall of this prison 

Stands high between you and me, 
And it brings me no tidings of freedom, 

And no message from those who are free. 
There's no rainbow of promise reflected 

By this cruel and revengeful old wall, 
But its strength is sufficient for greatness 

x\nd its greatness sufficient for all. 

My trouble, indeed, is distressing. 

And my spirit is heavy and sore ; 
It seems that the balance is tipping 

And will not bear up any more. 
But I trustingly look to the Master, 

I know He is loving and kind; 
I will ask Him to strengthen and lead me 

And not let me falter behind. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 

It seems all my friends have forsook me, 

With bitterness, loathing- and scorn. 
And away in the silent night watches 

I ask why I ever was born ? 
This still makes my punishment greater. 

As I feel the distress and the pain. 
And I wish I was out in the moonlight. 

And I wish I was out in the rain. 

The shadows fall darkly, my loved ones. 

Not a ray where it lingers and rests; 
No day star of brightness revealing 

The love that is hid in my breast. 
Oh, why don't you value the living. 

While yet the Great Reaper is stayed? 
Oh, wdiy don't you help up the fallen 

Before his short life is decayed? 

You all used to write to me often 

When I was away from the home. 
But now you have nearly quit writing 

And likely you all will disown ; 
And never again call me father, 

Nor listen to what I've to say, 
Because I am here in the prison 

And branded a criminal today. 

My wife seems to turn the cold shoulder. 

Not wishing to hear my sad tale ; 
Oh, God ! Have love and have mercy 

When the wife of my bosom doth fail. 
So long we have both walked together, 

Our joys and our sorrows were one. 
Our hands and our hearts both united 

In the happy, sweet race as we run. 

Oh, that my dear wife would stay with me 
And speak a kind word to me now ; 

How the curtains would lift from my eyelids 
And the furrows go back from my brow. 



55 



56 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Oh, why did you tell me you loved me 
When the roses of youth were so bright? 

Oh, why do you shun and disown me 
Because I'm a prisoner tonight? 

I know there's a great gushing fountain 

Opened up for the lost and the low ; 
I know that the blood of the Savior 

Can wash me as white as the snow. 
Long have I hoped and have waited, 

But no love in your letters I see; 
Now Jesus has come to the rescue 

And has saved a poor sinner like me. 

My hope now in Jesus is centered, 

To anchor in the haven of rest; 
He will wash from the stain of the prison, 

For He's planted His peace in my breast. 
So sound it in town and in city 

And send it far out on the sea, 
That God in His love and His mercy 

Has saved a poor sinner like me. 

But I feel that my health is a-breaking, 

My cheeks are all sunken and pale ; 
So write me a good, loving letter 

And send it today in the mail. 
May the Father of Mercy give comfort 

And protect all the path that I trod. 
And bring me out safe from this prison 

To walk on His green, grassy sod. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 57 

A Hunk of That Old Pumpkin Pi< 

{Song.) 



I have wandered so far in my rovings, 
And hard have I tried to forget 

The joys and charms of my childhood, 
But I cannot — I have not as yet. 

I cannot forget the old homestead, 
No matter how hard I may try ; 

I cannot forget that dear mother, 

Nor the taste of that great pumpkin pie. 

My goodness, how plain I can see it, 

Just one solid inch in the pan ; 
So yellow, so rich and so golden. 

With a "Come, eat it all, if you can." 

Today in my gloom and my sadness, 
I fancy I'm back there to roam 

Around the old garden and homestead, 
In the joys of my sweet boyhood home. 

Let the scenes of my childhood uncover, 
And the mist from my eyes roll away. 

Till I fancy I see that log cabin 

Where no shadow of trouble could play. 

In the shade of that old apple orchard 
My soul with enrapture doth swell, 

And I see the old moss-covered bucket 
From which I would drink at the well. 

Yes, I see myself there eating peaches 

And storing the apples away, 
And picking some ripe, juicy cherries, 

Wishing alwa37S that summer would stay. 



58 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND 

Then after the cows in the evening, 
To hurry them home on the fly, 

Then into the kitchen and cupboard 
For a hunk of that old pumpkin pie. 

Then up in the morning quite early, 
To milk and to plant out some seed; 

And then off to school at my lessons, 
To cipher, to study and read. 

When noon hour came I was waiting 
And started right off on the fly 

To locate that little tin bucket 

For a hunk of that old pumpkin pie. 

Then show me the cheery old fireplace 
Where father and mother would sit, 

Surrounded with happy, bright children 
In a home which contentment had fit. 

Gone are the days of my childhood, 
Gone are the ones I loved dear; 

Yet often in dreamland I meet them 
And fancy them standing quite near. 

Now hurry I must in my fancy. 

Till I meet with that old pumpkin pie ; 

Oh, my, how I truly did prize it, 
Both pleasing to taste and to eye. 

Then give me a hope of the future, 
And teach me a piece of a rhyme, 

And my heart overflowing wnth music 
Will measure away at the time. 

Then tenderly point to the pathway 
And guide me away from, the wrong. 

And let me press forward in duty. 
Surrounded with childhood and song. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 

So I'll gather the flowers of childhood 
And plant them to grow in my soul. 

To fill it with joy and with sweetness 
While the wa\'es of adversity roll. 

Yet a heavy, sad feeling comes o'er me, 
And you know I have almost to cry, 

As I fancy I see in that cupboard 
A hunk of that old pumpkin pie. 



59 



In the Bad Lands. 



I used to love to ramble in the dreary old Bad Lands, 
With my lasso on my saddle-horn and my rifle m my 

hand; 
I was a Western hunter and my rifle aim was true, 
I could chase the nimble antelope and round them up 

for you. 

I had a buffalo pony and he seemed to love my gun, 
And although he wasn't very fast he knew how it was 

done; .1,1^ 

For. riding- or for chasing was as fme as m the land, 
If I was 'in the saddle and the rein was in my hand. 

The other day while hunting away off on the flat 
I saw a nimble antelope and flagged him with my hat ; 
I shot that noble creature and packed him into camp. 
But to kill a graceful antelope Til vow I am a scamp. 



60 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



He Was Going Some for a Preacher. 

I put my hat upon my head and walked out for a stroll, 
The night was light, the moon was bright, the air was 

crisp and cold ; 
I walked out to a stylish church in the western part of 

town, 
The preacher was dressed up so fine he could not well 

sit down. 

The preacher was a gifted one, not timid, weak or shy, 
But waded in with all his might to make good ang'els cry ; 
His language was most perfect, too, and faultless was 

his coat, 
So stood he there upon the floor and praised the Lord 

by note. 

The sky was clear and cold that night and showed no 

sign of storm, 
But he could preach of hell so hot it sure would keep 

you warm; 
Of all the men I have ever heard portraying the wicked's 

lot 
With all their gifted eloquence could paint a hell so hot. 

He said there was a lake of fire, a seething, burning hell, 
Where wicked men and children, too, forever more 

would dwell; 
He preached eternal seething flames and hurled them 

through the room, 
In burning coals and fiery flames he cried the sinners' 

doom. 

Eternal and eternally the circling flames would roll, 
To torture and torment the lost, the weak and helpless 

soul; 
As I sat there a-thinking some, what would they do for 

him? 
The devil was rejoicing with a most becoming grin. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 61 

He said they always would exist within that burning 

flame, 
Ten thousand times ten thousand years to torture just 

the same ; 
With cries of pain ascending up through all the countless 

years, 
A cruel God, a heartless wretch, would have his time of 

tears. 

He did not preach the love of God, nor from the Bible 

read. 
But talked of fearful punishment dealt out to the wicked 

dead; 
All through the vast eternity while circling years shall 

roll 
The flames of hell will surge and throb upon the wicked 

soul. 

That gifted preacher, too, may here depart — depart from 

me, 
The heathen and the harlot shall enter before thee ; 
You have not taught the love of God, but spite, revenge 

and hate, 
While the people for salvation did hunger, long and wait. 

I think the worst men that we have are preachers 
worldly wise, 

For when they see the simple truth they turn away their 
eyes ; 

They'll stamp the floor and make a fuss and preach eter- 
nal fire, 

And then the fair and supper comes to pay the preacher's 
hire. 



62 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Hurrah for Old Montana Twenty Years 

Ago. 

{Song.) 

I want to tell you, Pardner, 

You ride a shaky horse 
When you leave dear old Montana 

And strike out another course. 
It is the one great rangeland 

That now is up to date, 
Where the long-horned steer is feeding 

In the Golden Treasure State. 

Chorus : 

Then hurrah for old Montana, 

And hurrah for you and me! 
For Fm here in old Montana, 

And it's here I want to be ! 

You may go down to Texas, 

Where the morning glory vine 
Is a-twisting and a-twining 

Round the cypress and the pine. 
But the doggies they get ticky, 

And they die upon the spot; 
There they pine away in summer, 

And the winter's just as hot. 

Chorus : 

Then hurrah for old Montana, 

And hurrah for you and me! 
For Fm here in old Montana, 

And it's here I want to be I 

You can't drive up to Kansas 

On the old Dodge City trail; 
There's a hundred thousand fences 

And a free delivery mail. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 63 

It is chickens and it's turkeys, 

And it's scrawny, weavily wheat, 
And the farmer with his whiskers 

Is the only one you meet. 

Chorus : 
Then hurrah for old Montana, 

And hurrah for you and me! 
For I'm here in old Montana, 

Just where I want to be! 

You may go to Colorado, 

But you cannot get a show; 
In the summer it is drouthy. 

In the winter it is snow. 
And the only place that's open. 

Where a Cowboy now can rest, 
Is the range of old Montana, 

The fair jewel of the West. 

Chorus : 
Then hurrah for old Montana, 

And hurrah for you and me ! 
For I'm here in old Montana, 

And it's here I want to be ! 

You may go east to Nebraska, 

But she hasn't got the stuff ; 
She's divided, cut and quartered, 

Every sandhill, smooth or rough. 
They have plenty of protection 

And they're asking none of us. 
And they're reaping now this harvest 

Of feathers and of fuss. 

Chorus : 
Then hurrah for old Montana, 

And hurrah for you and me ! 
For I'm here in old Montana, 

And it's here I want to be! 



64 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Yes, I'll stay in old Montana, 

Where the grass is rich and sweet. 
And where Nature is enchanting 

And tumbling round your feet. 
It's the only range that's open. 

Where a puncher now can rest, 
Is the range of old Montana, 

The fair gem of all the West. 

Chorus : 

Then hurrah for old Montana, 
And hurrah for you and me! 

For I'm here in old Montana, 
And it's here I want to be! 

There's no place like Montana, 

She's the Bingen on the Rhine; 
She's a-dancing and a-prancing. 

And a-coming up the line. 
She's a-standing like a warrior. 

With a crown upon her head, 
And unwilling to be numbered 

With the dying and the dead. 

Chorus : 

Then hurrah for old Montana, 
And hurrah for you and me! 

For I'm here in old Montana, 
And it's here I want to be! 

If you want to stay in Texas 

I am sure you have the right. 
But if you go to Nebraska 

I will bid you all goodnight. 
But when you lay me out to rest. 

Beyond this Great Divide, 
Plant me in old Montana, 

That's sunny, lone and wide. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 65 

. Chorus : 

Then hurrah for old Montana, 

And hurrah for you and me ! 
For I'm here in old Montana, 

And it's here I want to be! 



Lines to a Prisoner. 



Look up, my brother, do not fear 
To face the withering blast, 

For grated doors with iron bars 
Will open wide at last. 

These dark and cruel prison walls 

Will try tO' blot our name ; 
A convict, too, so I am told, 

Is shadowed deep in shame. 

But prison doors and clanking chains 

Do seldom reach the spot, 
But leave behind a lasting sting 

Which cannot be forgot. 

So let us now a lesson learn 
From those who wear the chain, 

And try to act a soldier's part 
And try to feel his pain. 

May he who made the brilliant sun, 

The golden stars to shine, 
Just man your heart with firm resolve 

To bear and not repine. 



66 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



A Lonely Grave Out West. 

Away out on the high divide between the Yellow- 
stone and the Stillwater rivers lies sleeping in Mother 
Earth the remains of a young boy about 14 or 15 years 
old, who was killed by the Indians in the early days of 
Montana. I fixed up his grave with stone and wrote 
the following verses and put them on his headstone : 

A lonely grave, a sacred spot. 

On the old Jim Bridger trail ; 
A mother's son is sleeping here 

In death so cold and pale. 

A boy of rather tender years 

To roam so far away. 
Out in the wild and woolly West, 

Where Indians kill and slay. 

The Red Man knows his resting place, 

Their arrows reached the mark, 
And here he lies now deep in dust, 

In house that's cold and dark. 

He died alone away out West, 

No friends to weep around ; 
The Indians in their thirst for blood 

Soon shot him to the ground. 

Next day the father, in his grief, 

Laid his dead boy to rest ; 
To sleep in old Montana soil. 

The gem of all the West. 

Not in the city of the dead 

He fills a yawning grave; 
But a lonely one away out West, 

Where Western winds do rave. 




'A Mothers Son is Sleeping Here. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 67 

No flowers to decorate his grave, 

No history writes his fame ; 
But I will place a bouquet there 

In honor of his name. 

Now should you pass this lonely grave, 

Let tender thoughts appear; 
For you shall sleep some day in dust 

As he who slumbers here. 

We'll leave him here in his repose, 

Unconscious of his rest; 
To sleep in old Montana soil. 

The flower of the West. 



To the Warden, Deer Lodge. 

Would it be against the prison rules 

To send these verses home? 
I'd like for wife to call to mind 

The fields we used to roam. 

Please grant this small request to me. 
And send them down the line, 

And you shall have the kind regards 
Of this frail heart of mine. 

I have with you a small account, 

So charge the same to me ; 
Unjust indeed would be the thought 

To have it charged to thee. 



68 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



That Old Sheepherder Man, 



I want to tell you where I've been, 

And what I've seen today, 
Away out West upon the range 

Where cattle used to stay. 
I saw a band of sheep, old Pard, 

I saw the herder, too. 
Come driving in his stinking sheep, 

Just like all herders do. 

It nearly took my breath away, 

I had to stop awhile; 
And then that crazy herder man 

Began to start a smile. 
I could not well control my bronk. 

And he began to pitch, 
And fired that old sheepherder man 

Right down into the ditch. 

Old Rattler still kept going high. 

The sheep began to scare ; 
The shepherd dog began to work 

Upon his master's hair. 
The way he pulled his master round 

Showed well the dog was game; 
You bet he towed this herder man 

Till he was good and tame. 

You ought to have seen this herder man 

In mud and water deep, 
A-prancing and a-dancing round 

As crazy as his sheep. 
I left him there unto his fate, 

With all his fuss and roar, 
And never saw a herder man 

Turned wrong side out before. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 69 

I went next day back to this place. 

The birds began to sing, 
The cattle feeding on the hills 

Was a delightful thing. 
But sheep and herder they were gone, 

Kad went across the bridge 
Beyond the rocky point divide 

Across the stony ridge. 

And now the range looks good to me, 

No sheep nor herder there. 
And cattle on a thousand hills, 

The glorious rangeland share. 
Say sheepman, listen now to me, 

Please do not come about. 
For if you do my bucking bronk 

Will put you all to rout. 

I hate a little fenced-up range 

Where sheepmen fuss and fight. 
But where it's big and wild and free 

Therein I take delight. 
A thousand miles across a flat 

Gives room to go and come, 
And joy to meet the puncher boys 

When they are scattered some. 

So now I'll picket out my horse 

Beneath the Western sky. 
Where stinking sheep and herders, too. 

Have bid the range goodbye. 
And here beside this old cowtrail 

I'll ride and laugh and grin. 
But do not want those farmer gents 

To come and fence me in. 



70 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Written in the County Jail at Big Timber, 
Montana. 

{Song.) 



Come all yon Sweet Grass County boys, 

Come listen to my rhyme; 
We're laying in Big Timber jail 

Because accused of crime. 
We're laying in Big Timber jail, 

And surely feel the curse, 
But in our hearts we're thankful, boys, 

That things ain't any worse. 

This jail outfit's the laziest gang 

That e'er creation reared ; 
They're rather small of caliber. 

Their conscience hard and seared. 
One fire a day is what we get, 

In weather hot or cold, 
'Cause the sheriff is too lazy, boys. 

And the jailer is too old. 

Jake Lyons is the turnkey man, 

He carries grub and such ; 
He's wilHng to do all he can. 

But that, you, know, ain't much. 
He comes down every morning late, 

Stands up and walks around, 
As if he's looking for a wife 

And can't find one in town. 

When Jake comes from the boarding house 

With hot coffee in the can. 
We're mighty glad to know, my boys. 

That Tucker is the man 
Who sends us such good things to eat. 

And not stuck up, you know, 
Shall some day wear a golden crown 

In a way that won't be slow. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 71 

Now Jake, our jailer's, out of town, 

I think he's gone to Nye; 
Of course it made us all feel bad. 

While Jim began to cry. 
And while he's gone we mourn for him, 

The pie and cake don't come; 
We wish that he would hurry back 

So he can bring us some. 

I hear he's gone a-fishing, boys, 

Way up to Hawkes' Hole, 
A-tantalizing minnows there 

With his long old fishing pole. 
But Jake will soon be back again, 

When fishing days are o'er, 
And bring us lots of pie and cake, 

As he has done before. 

Now while he's gone we're feeling bad, 

The work is never done, 
And we have a kick a-coming, boys, 

As to how this jail is run. 
We hear that Jake is back again. 

And we're thankful, too, for that. 
For when we get a streak of lean 

We'll get a streak of fat. 

Say, won't you kill the fatted calf 

And bring us some to eat? 
With ham and eggs along the side^ — 

'T would be a perfect treat. 
A pullet, too, with yellow legs, 

A turkey good and ripe, 
Would suit us poor old jailbirds. 

With partridge, quail and snipe. 

Although we're in this lonely cell 

For right we will contend; 
Don't strike us with your fishing pole 

Until we are condemned. 



72 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

And when we get our liberty 
We won't forget our rhyme. 

Nor we won't forget our turnkey man 
In the good old summer time. 

1 

We won't forget our neighbor boys 

For their friendship in the past 
And taking just another chance, 

We hope it still may last. 
And when we swim old Jordan stream, 

Cross o'er the Great Divide, 
We hope to see friend Tucker there 

A-standing by our side. 



To Ride Away Out West. 

{Song.) 

Come all you rambling Cowboys and a story I will tell, 
Before I leave old Sweet Grass to go to the pen to 

dwell. 
I have no ill-bred feelings well pent up in my breast, 
But a handshake for true-hearted men who ride away 

out West. 

I was born and raised in the Buckeye state and never 

came to shame 
Till I left my dear old homestead to ride upon the range; 
One day I got in trouble, boys, and it was very queer, 
They brought a bill against me for killing Rhine's steer. 

I used to love to hunt and trap out in the Western wilds, 
O'er barren plains and mountain haunts I've roamed for 

many miles ; 
The graceful antelope and deer I used to get with ease — 
Could rope the wildest broncho and ride him where I 

pleased. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 73 

It's away down in the nation, boys, I know well all the 

trail, 
And away across Wyoming, the land of storm and hail; 
With a roving disposition, that would never let me rest, 
I wandered to Montana, boys, to roam out in the West. 

These old Montana roundups I think will take the prize. 
They'll call you in the morning with the starlight in the 

sky; 
They will start you on a circle full forty miles away, 
And you are mighty lucky if you get two meals a day. 

It's here I met a Southern boy, from the old Texas state, 

A Cowboy by profession, which I will now relate; 

He had settled on a little home, wath his dear wife and 

child, 
To follow the long-horned steer around in the Montana 

wilds. 

'T was on a cold December day, just a little after noon, 
We rounded up a bunch of steers and rounded them quite 

soon ; 
We drove them to a coolie, a beef to kill that day, 
But Jim he made a blundering shot to only wound a 

stray. 

The sheriff and his deputy just happened to be near. 
And in a very little while to us they did appear; 
And when they both before us stood I never shall forget 
The feelings at that moment, boys, revives within me yet. 

They took us to Big Timber jail and there behind the 

bars 
For nearly four long dreary months we never roamed 

afar; 
So now we are in shackles, boys, I'm willing to admit. 
They say that we are guilty, but they haven't proved 

it yet. 



74 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND 

They put our bonds so very high we could not meet the 

sum, 
And one who could fill all demands would sure be going 

some ; 
Thirty-six hundred, I am told, is just a little queer 
To bond a man behind the bars for killing of a steer. 

The sheriff and his deputy they did not do us right, 
They said I was an outlaw and I would always fight ; 
They said to take a hundred men and stand them line in 

line. 
And let them pick a fighting man they'd pick Beggs 

every tim.e. 

Of course, a bad report like this may send me o'er the 

road, 
And drive me to a prison pen when no resistance showed ; 
But if I have to wear the stripes and make a prison hand 
You'll never hear me fret or whine — I still shall be a 

man. 

You ought to have seen that jury, boys, sheepherders I 

express, 
A-pacing up to the jury seats in their Norwegian dress; 
While each one had his mind made up, the seed already 

sowed. 
To turn the old-time Cowboy down and send him o'er 

the road. 

But there was Lawyer Barbour, a man of low degree, 
Who stood before that jury, boys, to stamp his hate on 

me; 
And there was R. R. Purcell, who I cannot well forget, 
He was the blackest of them all — I think I hear him yet. 

Thus spread the great R. R. Purcell like a cyclone o'er 

the skies, 
He made the courtroom ring aloud with falsehoods and 

with lies ; 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 75 

Out Spoke this shallow-hearted cur, his language freely 

flowed, 
''Now all you noble jury boys, come send them o'er the 

road." 

He said up at the old stockade I had no house nor hut, 
I had no barn or fences made and hence no gate to shut ; 
This was the great R. R. Purcell, who in Helena resides, 
Enough, my boys, to shock my heart and I sought my 
blush to hide. 

The foreman of my jury, boys, Louis Guthrie was his 

name, 
A sheepman with the wool all on and both hands in the 

game; 
He said he was a juryman and to court he sure would go 
To send them to a prison pen in a way to not be slow. 

The jury quickly hastened, boys, its verdict for to give, 
They thought the old-time Cowboy was hardly fit to live ; 
That jury found me guilty, boys, Judge Henry sentenced 

me 
To labor hard for five long years in the penitentiary. 

The sheepmen and the cattlemen have had a dreadful 
time 

And human gore has freely flowed throughout this West- 
ern clime; 

But the sheep have got the range today, the herder's got 
the grippe. 

Just as they had long years ago away down in the Strip. 



RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



The Gems of Old Montana. 



'Cause we live here in Montana 
People really think we're tough ; 

We are just as good as they are, 
We are diamonds in the rough. 

We are the kind of diamonds 

That will ease your troubled breast- 

The gems of old Montana, 
The pride of all the West. 

Here Montana sage is plenty, 
So are rattlesnakes and ticks : 

Here we sell the short-horn feeder. 
But we sell no gilded bricks. 

When the weather's dry and dusty 
Our crops all grow the best, 

In the soil of old Montana, 
The pride of all the West. 

Don't leave the land of plenty. 
Where happiness is found. 

But stay here in Montana, 

Where they have a heap of ground. 

You may drive a splendid carriage, 
By your side a handsome wife. 

And board at the penitentiary 
A great share of your life. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 77 



Indians' Story of Custer's Last Battle, 

The Indians' story of Custer's fight has never been told 
in full, 

Nor the massacre of all his men by the braves of Sitting 
Bull; 

It was in the Big Horn country, in the year of seventy- 
six, 

On the twenty-fifth day of June, no other date we fix. 

Custer left Fort Abraham Lincoln in the spring of seven- 
ty-six 

And with the Indians on the warpath he expected soon 
to mix ; 

He had six hundred cavalry men and every one was 
strong, 

And some four hundred infantry to Custer did belong. 

You know it is a part of life's great mystery of fate 
That keeps men ever pressing on until it is too late ; 
From weaker ones we often hear a story deep in shame, 
Or from the dark night of the past a star leads forth to 
fame. 

And so it was with Custer — no turning back he knew — 
Till Death's cold silent shadows o'er the Little Big Horn 

threw ; 
Brave Custer had no ironclad rule to overthrow a foe, 
But w^hen in sight of the enemy he straight for them 

would go. 

We will hear the Indians' story of Custer's last great 

fight 
On the Little Big Horn river, the bloody Sioux delight; 
There were little chiefs and big chiefs and the braves of 

many moons, 
Rough pictures, too, of Indian life to mark the soldiers' 

tombs. 



78 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

My people, said old Sitting Bull, were starved from off 
their land, 

And driven from their hunting grounds toward the bar- 
ren sand ; 

There was no game for them to hunt, no food for them 
to eat, 

Our freedom, too, was taken away bound to the white 
man's feet. 



The white man, said old Sitting Bull, had drove us far 

away 
And still they kept on pushing us and driving us each 

day; 
And then to fix and finish us they sent the boys in blue, 
Of course we had to fight them, and we fought the battle 

through. 



Custer came to fight us and we brought our warriors up, 
And we called our braves together, and we filled their 

bitter cup ; 
Brave Yellow Hair had many soldiers — he, too, had 

many guns — 
While we had many warriors with the braves of many 

suns. 



My people they heap frightened, they did not want to die, 
The Father he heap angry, his wrath reach way up high ; 
My people were in trouble and had much talk where 

to go. 
While heap scout like the eagles followed Custer high 

and low. 



We did not want to fight them, for Custer was much 

brave, 
We did not want to torture them or send them to their 

grave ; 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 79 

Brave Yellow Hair a mighty chief, and he no 'fraid to 

fight, 
But he still keep on a-pushing us, and we did not think 

it right. 

On the twenty-fifth day of June, late in the afternoon, 
We saw the soldiers on the hills, and we made ready 

soon; 
Brave Yellow Hair was in the lead with frenzied terror 

smiled. 
While hard he spurred his reeking horse to reach the 

Injuns wild. 

Red Horse, a mighty Injun chief, saw Custer swiftly 

coming, 
'T was then we called our warriors up, and they came 

fast and running; 
Rain-in-the-Face, a noted chief, was the one who led the 

braves 
And charged them down on Custer's crew and left them 

for their graves. 

We gave the mighty warwhoop as we rushed upon our 

prey. 
And we fought the last great battle, and we fought it 

there that day ; 
There was long and bloody fighting and many braves 

were killed. 
And the river it ran bloody where the life blood had been 

spilled. 

Here on the Little Big Horn was Custer's last great 

fight, 
Surrounded with savage redskins, on the left and on the 

right; 
Rain-in-the-Face was in the lead to do his very best. 
And Gall was pushing in the rear to meet him from the 

west. 



80 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

While Bear and Red Horse fought fearful there tliat day, 
And thick on the Little Big Horn did the dead and 

dying lay — 
Red Wolf and Kicking Horse, they both fought long and 

well, 
With Sitting Bull close by their side where Custer fought 

and fell. 

With that last great battle over and hundred, too, had 
bled, 

The redskins rushed upon the scene to cut and scalp the 
dead ; 

But did not touch brave Yellow Hair, they honored him 
with might, 

For he was much brave Yellow Hair, and he would al- 
ways fight. 

No more will those wild savage braves ride o'er the West- 
ern plains, , 

For Sitting Bull at Wound.ed Knee now with the dead 
remains ; 

And now no more brave Yellow Hair on Indian trails 
will ride, 

For in eighteen hundred and seventy-six he crossed the 
Great Divide. 

Upon that bloody battlefield a costly marble stands. 
To mark the last long resting place of heroes great and 

grand ; 
No more they'll hear the bugle call, or yet the muffled 

drum. 
But will answer to the roll call when the judgment day 

has come. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 81 



We Have Them All at Deer Lodge. 

Talk about insurance agents, 

With their cunning little schemes. 
They loom up here at Deer Lodge 

Like shadows over streams. 
We have the biggest rascals here 

That ever forged a check, 
A-boarding at this prison pen — 

They got it in the neck. 

I will tell you how they do it, 

And they do it, too, with ease. 
Just as easy as a fakir man 

Can play his game of peas. 
They will drive out to your dwelling 

\A/ith a spanking team of bays ; 
They are grafting on a grafter's plan, 

A graft that always pays. 

^'Good morning, Mr. Stebbins, 

I have called around to see 
If I could write you out today 

A life-long policy." 
And he talks so very smoothly 

While the other rubs it in, 
And they tickle the old farmer 

And he soon begins to grin. 

Now they tell a funny story 

And it has a funny ring. 
They are working on the farmer 

Just to do the funny thing. 
Now they have the farmer moving 

And a-coming up the stream. 
And the agents they are tickled 

Till they almost have to scream. 



82 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

But they come to some conclusion, 

An agreement soon is reached, 
And the farmer is a-blooming, 

But he soon begins to screech. 
When he finds that they have worked him 

Well, it isn't any sport. 
For the agents now have got him 

Where the hair is rather short. 

They have wrote him up a policy 

A-covering life and death, 
To be payable the morning 

Of the day he lost his breath. 
Now the papers are completed 

And you'll hear the farmer squeal, 
As they lather him all over 

Just to shave him to the heels. 

Soon the children they get tickled, 

And their mother she did, too. 
And when everybody's tickled 

Why, it is a tickled crew. 
And when everybody's tickled 

Why, of course, it tickles you, 
But the agents they were tickled, 

And tickled through and through. 

Old Sorgum started laughing, 

And he laughed a rolling gait. 
And he never stopped a-laughing, 

So he laughed till middling late. 
As he thought of all the suckers 

Who were willing to be caught 
Caused a feeling at his throatway 

Like a flapjack when it's hot. 

Oh, the different kinds of people 

This old world can show up, 
The wolf in his sheep clothing 

And the drunkard with his cup. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 83 

We have them all at Deer Lodge, 

The walls are high and strong, 
The farmer with his whiskers 

And the agent with his song. 

They are sitting here with stripes on, 

A-musing on the past; 
They wish they hadn't done it, 

But the musing long will last. 
Oh, this world's a curious outfit. 

With its honey and its gall. 
With its cares and its caresses — 

It's a great world after all. 

Now you horny-fisted farmers 

Let me say to you a word. 
If you want to keep your hay seed. 

Your horses and your herd, 
Just be a little skittish 

In believing all you hear, 
For those agents tell some whoppers 

And they sound a little queer. 

Now you old potato raisers. 

Who have always took the prize, 
A-raising big potatoes 

With ninety-seven eyes, 
Let the smart insurance agents 

With their cute and funny ways. 
Work the hills and wooded valleys 

Where no human maverick stays. 



84 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



A Notice on the Lone Cabin on Bridger 

Creek. 



Well, boys, I have the cabin done, 

But the fellow isn't here; 
But when the grass starts on the hills 

I think he will appear. 
So I will measure off the land 

And set the corner stakes, 
And try to whistle up a tune 

For the ranch on Bridsfer Brakes. 



'fc.' 



A mansard roof is very good, 

But a boxcar roof is better. 
But what's the use for either one 

If the weather is no wetter? 
Here's plenty of good water, boys. 

To quench your thirsty pains ; 
Walk over to the spring out there 

Or wait until it rains. 

Not many women folks about 

And things are looking glum — 
You had better get a hustle on 

And get to going some. 
Who told you you could read this ? 

Say, what are you about ? 
Only twelve miles to Whiting's store, 

Does your mother know you're out ? 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 85 

When the Bronk Begins to Bawl. 



It is out here in Montana, which we call the treasure 
state, 

Where we raise the bucking broncho, with the Cowboy 
up to date; 

Where the rich, nutritious grasses gives them muscle, 
strength and nerve 

To go up high and crooked and make the proper curve ; 

Where we have the best of riders— some are short and 
some are tall — 

But there's always something doing when the bronk be- 
gins to bawl. 

It is out here in Montana, in the wild and woolly West, 
Where the bronk grows to perfection and the Cowboy's 

at his best ; 
From the murky picturesque Yellowstone away up to the 

line 
You will find those pitching bronchos and Cowboys m 

their prime ; 
From mountain, plain and valley they will answer to the 

call , ^ . 

To show you something funny when the bronk begms 

to bawl. 

You may gather in your punchers, you may call them all 

by name. 
And every one will answer with a record of his fame; 
They will tell you they are twisters from the little town 

of Fisk, 
And can ride the twisting bronchos, no matter how they 

twist ; 
But the dust cloud rolling yonder says there's going to be 

a squall, 
And some gent will find a landing when the bronk begins 
to bawl. 



86 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND 

You may be a gallant rider and can turn your broncho 

loose 
While he jumps and springs and wiggles like a little mad 

cayuse ; 
You may wear your broad sombreros and your dark An- 
gora schapps, 
Or your little Sunday duster, or your heavy winter 

wraps ; 
You may have a dandy outfit — saddle, bridle, cinch and 

ail- 
But something will be doing when the bronk begins to 
bawl. 

When the rider goes to shaking, turning pale around the 

grills, 

Just as little Annie Sagar does with Oklahoma chills; 
When his grip begins to loosen and his strength begins 

to go 
There is not a bit of danger he will pocket up your 

dough ; 
When he's left the royal palace and is looking sick and 

small 
The horse will drop his baggage when the bronk begins 

to bawl. 

When the bronk has gone a-fishing somewhere up in a 
cloud, 

And is coming like a thunderbolt and feeling mighty 
proud, 

You may have a pair of rollers as large as motor wheels, 

With shanks as long and ugly as a fork of crooked steel ; 

You must be a twister twisting with a large amount of 
gall. 

For there's always something doing when the bronk be- 
gins to bawl. 

It is out here in Montana, in the wild and woolly West, 
Where the bronk can shake a diamond or the buttons 
from your vest; 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 87 

When you saddle up an outlaw, I would have you all to 

know, 
That safety is some distance off and danger close below; 
So I warn you, gentle fellow, if you be short or tall, 
There's always something doing when the bronk begins 

to bawl. 

When the bronk goes off prospecting twenty feet at every 

jump, 
Skylarking way up yonder, looking for a place to dump ; 
When he grunts and groans and quivers like a ship 

caught in a storm, 
When his eyes are big and bulging and his breath is 

mighty warm; 
It is then some reckless puncher will answer to his call 
And the saddle drop its baggage when the bronk begins 

to bawl. 



How Are You Fixed for Straw? 



Reuben was an odd genius in his makeup, in his 
talk and even in his walk. 

Reuben come to visit us 

From where he used to roam; 
Boarding now at Deer Lodge, 

Far away from home. 
For Reuben swiped a saddle. 

And forgot to swipe the horse ; 
Sent him up to Deer Lodge — 

Got a year, of course. 

He says he took a chance once, 

Got a solid year; 
It looks mighty funny 

And it looks mighty queer. 



88 



RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Won't take another chance, 

Shan't break a law ; 
Hello there, calfman, 

How are you fixed for straw ? 

Reuben g-ets up early 

With an easy going smile, 
Nothing strange about it, 

Only Reuben's style. 
In he goes to breakfast, 

And at once begins to chaw; 
Hello there, calfman, 

How are you fixed for straw ? 

He goes from the table, 

Using high falutin slang, 
Out upon the sidewalk 

Down he goes kerbang. 
Sidewalk's mighty icy, 

Didn't think I'd fall. 
Just went down a-squabbling — 

Guess I got it all. 

He goes to the loafing shack. 

Looking sorter glum ; 
Starts up a little game, 

Gets to going some. 
Divy to the jackpot, 

Something I can chaw; 
Hello there, calfman, 

How are you fixed for straw ? 

Reuben goes to dinner, 

Slim around the girt; 
Comes out from dinner 

Looking like he's hurt. 
I want to trade my jackknife, 

A peach without a flaw ; 
Hello there, calfman, 

How are )^ou fixed for straw? 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 89 

Reuben got his nose peeled, 

But he can't tell how, 
A-playing with the greyhound 

Or fooling with the cow. 
Reuben's up against it. 

Just as sure as you are born ; 
Snow flakes and sunshine 

Driving up a storm.. 

Reuben goes to breakfast. 

Flapjacks mighty hot; 
Going to fill your pockets ? 

Guess you better not. 
Reuben starts a-singing. 

Hurray and hurrah ; 
Hello there, calf man, 

How are you fixed for straw ? 

See Reuben coming 

With his section boss gait; 
He wants to get married 

And is looking for a mate. 
He has a little sweetheart 

Down in Arkansas ; 
Hello there, calf man. 

How are you fixed for straw? 

He comes from the loafing shack 

A-looking mighty fine, 
His heart a-beating tenor 

And his feet a-keeping time. 
I'm going out tomorrow. 

And here's to you my paw ; 
Hello there, calfman, 

How^ are you fixed for straw ? 



90 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



The Old Slop Mule at Deer Lodge. 

I am a good old working mule, 

But my life's been very hard, 
For twenty years I've hauled the slop 

Away from this old yard. 
Some years ago the stripes went off 

And then went on the brown; 
They made a trusty mule of me, 

To haul the slop from town. 

It's hard to be a little mule. 

And work in harness so ; 
The heavier is the load I have, 

The faster I must go. 
The cart is such a heavy thing. 

And my harness they are, too ; 
They have to keep my collar tight 

To keep from pulling through. 

Of drivers I have had a few, 

A dozen, more or less ; 
Jim Doodle is my driver now, 

A bum one, too, I guess. 
And when my load is tough to pull, 

He'll kick me hard and shout. 
And when the ladies come around 

He always bawls me out. 

I've served them well for twenty years. 

And done the best of work ; 
No matter how they loaded me, 

I never played the shirk. 
But now when old and stiffened up 

They drive me with a stick ; 
But I will show that Dutchman yet 

This mule is pretty slick. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 91 

He jerks me by the bridle bit 

Until my mouth is sore, 
And when I toss my head with pain 

He always gives me more. 
The way I'll fix that Dutchman yet 

You need not have a doubt ; • 
I hate to have that driver man 

To always bawl me out. 

One day to show how mean he was, 

He hit me with a scoop ; 
And then I overturned the cart 

And spilled out all the soup. 
The hog warden come a-butting in 

And hit me with a club ; 
Just then I sent a lifter out — 

He landed in the tub. 

They loaded me with slop one day, 

And handled me quite rough; 
I did not like to have to haul 

And smell that horrid stuff. 
I started them a-going some, 

A gait I couldn't stop; 
And run the cart into the creek 

And spilled out all the slop. 

They worked me over, too, I guess. 

But it was all the same ; 
The old mule had his dander up, 

And he was out for game. 
And while they fished the old cart out, 

I stood so good and still; 
They also got the barrels again, 

But had to leave the swill. 

But convict labor it is cheap 

And of the poorest grade; 
But I'm a mule that was brought up 

A-hummer to my trade. 



^2 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

My heels can run a fanning mill, 
My mouth can sing a tune; 

ni round that Dutch hog warden up 
And feed him with a spoon. 

I'm all right now and feeling fine 

To knock that Dutchman out, 
To chase him round the opera house 

And hear the ladies shout. 
Look out for me, Fm coming now, 

I'm on the highway route; 
I want to meet that Dutchman now 

And hear him bawl me out. 

Fve done that Dutch hog warden up, 

He had it in for me; 
I only hit him with my breath, 

And made him blind, you see. 
Two Dutchmen left the burning deck, 

And both were looking wise; 
The old mule got his dander up 

And blackened both their eyes. 

Those Dutchmen now are vei-y sick. 

And looking awful pale; 
They thought to make a tool of me, 

In this they both did fail. 
For if you treat a mule that way 

He'll practice with his feet. 
And just as sure as you're alive 

He's laying for your meat. 

So now I'm done, I've had my tear, 

And laid two Dutchmen low; 
Will kindly bow my head to you, 

With measure, beat and slow. 
For some day they will haul me off 

Upon the boneyard route, 
Where all the Dutchmen in the world 

Will never bawl me out. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 



93 



Malugian at Great Falls Goes to the Cir- 
cus and Tries to Ride a Trick Mule. 



Well, wife, I've landed here at last, and the town it looks 
all right, . 

The streets are wide and handsome and fills me with 
delight; . . 

There's about five thousand houses, I'm giving now a 
guess, 

Many of them two stories high, and some are more or 

less. 

I went out the other day, dear wife, to take in all the 

sights, , 

I walked along quite proudly, too, I guess I have the 

right; 
I walked out to the city park, and then and there I found 
To my perfect satisfaction that a show had come to town. 

So I steered right straight for the circus, and the elephant 

he was out, 
The people they went nearly wild, you ought to have 

heard them shout ; 
The parade it started early, and it surely was immense, 
It reached from the Park hotel, dear wife, out to Lick 

Brindle's fence. 

I was bound to see the elephant, but they had stretched a 

rope, you see, 
And while looking for Mr. Elephant, Mr. Elephant he 

found me ; 
He turned me two and twenty and whirled me round and 

round, 
And left three hundred pounds of flesh just piled upon 
the offound. 



94 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Well, the people they just hooted me, you ought to have 

heard them laugh, 
They said old 'Lugian's cow has broke her neck and 

nearly killed her calf ; 
I tell you, dear wife, I felt the shame, I can't tell you 

just how, 
I think the people mixed me up with my old brindle cow. 

But soon I gathered up myself and from that scene did 

hie. 
And pulled my red bandanner out and wiped my bloody 

eye; 
I walked a furious, swaggling gait and trying hard to go. 
And heard the ladies laugh and say, "Old 'Lugian ain't 

so slow." 

Well, I crawled into the circus and I saw the merry 

clown, 
The funniest of the funny men that ever came to town; 
He had a great big striped suit, spotted red and yellow, 
And when he would unwind himself you know I had to 

bellow. 

Roar after roar of laughter went around that circus ring, 
And when she'd grow a little weak they'd give her an- 
other fling; 
The funny clown in funny dress then sung a funny song 
'Bout his little blue-eyed sweetheart, who he called his 
Lucy Long. 

He sung it, oh, so nice, dear wife, I wish you had been 

there. 
It brought to mind old courting days, when you were 

young and fair; 
When we ran a race together and you beat me from the 

start. 
When you threw your arms around me and called me 

your sweetheart. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 95 

Then soon they brought a mule, dear wife, into that 

circus ring, 
And asked for a man with nerve enough to ride that 

ornery thing ; 
I hollored out, "Here, I'm 3^our chap, I've seen some 

mules before," 
Not thinking of his treacherous soul, nor of the other 

shore. 

I just jumped from off my chair and started for that 

mule, 
And heard the people laugh and say, ''Malugian's an old 

fool ;" 
I took a glance around the ring and seen the hoodlums 

grin, 
Then I just scooted up my sleeves and boldly waded in. 

You know when I was young, dear wife, I was limber 

as an eel. 
But still there's mettle enough in me to make that critter 

squeal ; 
I said I'd ride that ornery mule or learn him a new trick, 
And if I couldn't break him in Fd make him awful sick. 

I landed quick upon his back, the people shouted, ''Go !" 
The ladies clapped their hands and said, "Old 'Lugian 

ain't so slow;" 
I grabbed him by his stubby tail, threw both legs round 

his neck. 
And bravely there I stayed with him like the boy on the 

burning deck. 

Hie went around that circus ring as hard as he could 

hump, 
A-making twenty feet or more at nearly every jump; 
Then soon he changed his method quick, but found it 

wouldn't work. 
And went up yonder thirty feet and came down with a 

jerk. 



96 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

He made another fearful jump, my eyes rolled out afar, 
It seemed I almost then could see the gates that stand 

ajar; 
Then down he came all doubled up, his head between 

each leg, 
But I was still a-staying there a-playing mumblypeg. 

Then up again into the air he circled, churned and twist, 
But spurred him with my old brogans and fanned him 

with my fist; 
Then gently he descended like, and to earth again did 

shoot, 
For he had been away up there like an airship on a toot. 

His eyes seemed now toi be of fire, his heels seemed full 

of danger, 
For he had on his back, you know, three hundred pounds 

of stranger; 
Then I soon began to wonder how he could hold out so 

long. 
And found that he was yet wound up for fifteen hours' 

strong. 

He seemed to go asleep awhile, then made another lark, 
And flashed around that circus ring like lightning after 

dark; 
And then away from earth he went a-twisting through 

the skies, 
I said farewell, old circus ring, and wiped my weeping 

eyes. 

When we got back to the circus ring, there nothing 

looked the same. 
My pardner he had lost his tail and I soon lost my name ; 
The mule got back that very day with eyeballs big and 

wide, 
He landed in the circus ring, but I away outside. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 97 

I gathered up myself, dear wife, the very best I could, 
But no doubt left some flesh and bones in the place 

where once I stood ; 
For when I started off, dear wife, I did a wobbling go, 
Then noticed I had lost a leg and part of my big toe. 

Now all you Western riders, don't come up against a 

mule. 
For if you do some day you'll rue, and vou will be the 

fool; 
That mule has all his meanness yet; yes, meaner than 

before, 
While big Malugian, the old cow, will ride the mule no 

more. 



On Mount Powell, Montana. 

We climbed Mt. Powell's rocky slope 

Till on its topmost crag, 
We stood and looked from it afar 

Beyond the sagebrush sag. 

Away beyond this great divide 
Are mountains deep with snow, 

To water well the fruitful fields 
That nestle close below. 

It's here they rear their lofty herds 

Unchanged by time or fate, 
Bold and defiant here they stand 

In this great treasure state. 

Whenever I leave this prison house 

I'll have within my breast 
Rich peace and love a-dwelling there 

That gives eternal rest. 



98 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



The Boys at Billings, 



Talk about your pitching horses. 

Your saddles and corrals, 
But the Billings boys can ride them 

To a sweet and long farewell. 

It's out across the Yellowstone, 
Two miles from Billings flat, 

You'll find the Conway old corral 
And all the boys thereat. 

Jack Herford, he is in the swim, 
With Lowther, too, his chum, 

And Hayden George is twisting bronks 
And isn't on the bum. 

There is Lanky Jack, the wrangler, 
From somewhere in the state, 

He swings into the saddle 
And rides them all first-rate. 

He may pull a little leather, 
And the pulling not be slow. 

But he'll fan them with his quirt 
And ride them for the dough. 

There's Albert Caton, you all know, 

He saddled up a bronk, 
And when he got the saddle on 

H'e soon began to romp. 

He quickly danced an Irish jig. 

Then shot into the air, 
Turned over before he hit the ground, 

But landed square and fair. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES &» 

But soon again he took a start, 

And bucked toward the sun, 
He met some others coming down, 

But dodged them one by one. 

The way he smashed that saddle up 

Showed well the bronk was game, 
But Albert kept the old hull on 

x\nd rode him just the same. 

If you think the Billings boys can't ride 

Just come and watch them try, 
They give an exhibition free 

Beneath the earth and sky. 

There's Wesley Cagle, the old boy, 

You never hear him squeal. 
But pours the music from his throat 

When he puts to the steel. 

He rides them in a circle, 

Or he rides them in a line, 
And he plays his rolling prodders 

Till the bronk goes fine. 

There's George Clark, a Billings boy, 

A twister true to name ; 
When Georgie's cinch is fastened tight 

No broncho gets the game. 

He keeps his spurs a-digging 

And his quirt a-keeping time, 
And he rides Sir Mr. Broncho 

Till the stars begin to shine. 

Goodbye, my boys, I've had my say. 

Now I must jump the fence. 
For I've wrote my paper up 

And found I've just commenced. 



100 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



Farewell, Titanic, Proud Ship of the Sea. 



Gone is the great Titanic, gone to the home of the brave, 
Gone are the sixteen hundred, down to a watery grave; 
Gone are the kind and the loving under the blue sea 

foam, 
Gone from' the mansion and palace never again to roam. 

Husbands and wives now parting, never again to meet, 
Mothers and sons now drifting, never again tO' greet; 
Gone are the brave and daring, down into the deep blue 

sea. 
Gone from the home-loving circle and sad is their fate 

to me. 

Men thought this great modern vessel could never be 

wrecked, 
She was large, strong and powerful, and most beautifully 

decked ; 
In luxury, in speed and in comfort she was all that 

could be. 
But she could not contend with the troops of the sea. 

With scarcely a warning they sank down to their rest. 
Like a group of brave warriors with a star on their 

breast ; 
They had heaps of great treasures, but the summons had 

come. 
Their journey now ended and their life's work was done. 

In no grave made with hands could those brave heroes 

sleep, 
But out with the seaweeds in the midst of the deep; 
With no earth to its earth, and no dust to its dust, 
'Neath the foam of old ocean they must sleep to His 

trust. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 101 

But of all the brave women in that ocean-tossed crew 
There were none quite so brave, there were none quite 

so true, 
As Mrs. Isador Straus, clinging fast to her husband till 

death did them part, 
Being true, brave and loyal to the last throb of her heart. 

Oh, how feeble are the genius of frail, fleeting men 
'Gainst the forces of nature as it proved to be then ; 
Niow they rest, now they sleep 'neath the white-crested 

foam, 
With no clasp on their casket and no door on their tomb. 

Farewell, proud Titanic, farewell now to thee, 
Thy pride has been humbled by the troops of the sea; 
Farewell to thy brave in their long, dreamless sleep, 
To mingle with seaweeds in the trough of the deep. 



The Knot That Hands Have Tied. 



When love goes thumping through your heart, 

With its great sweep and swing, 
You are very apt to tie yourself 

To a most worthless thing. 

So, to you I come on friendly terms 

And ask you to restrain 
That current of magnetic love 

That's thumping through your veins. 

And be sure the marriage knot is made 

By hearts that's true and tried. 
For the divorce can soon undo 

The knots that hands have tied. 

No human courts will feel the pain, 

No human hands the stain. 
But there upon life's record sheet 

A blot will long remtain. 



102 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



The Old Stockade Corral 



There's a happy time a-coming 

For the old stockade corral, 
When the calf is up a-sucking 

And the chickens bust the shell. 
When the fire is just a-popping 

And the coffee smoking hot, 
I want to tell you fellows 

It's a regular garden spot. 

The old stockade's exploding 

With her agriculturing wealth. 
The air is soft and balmy, 

Very dry and full of health. 
But the wind it keeps a-blowing 

Like it did down in the strip. 
And, prairie dogs a-sneezing 

Like they all have got the grip. 

This is at the head of Bridger, 

Far from the county seat. 
Twenty miles from* Absarokee, 

A town that's hard to beat ; 
Where the golden stars do twinkle 

And the rattlesnake abound. 
And where the pitching broncho 

At the old stockade is found. 

There's a happy time a-coming. 

And it's coming pretty soon, 
A warm chinook is blowing 

And has kept it up since noon. 
It's coming, yes, it's coming, 

The happy time of spring. 
When the doves will be all mating 

And the whippoorwills will sing. 




L> 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 103 

Soon the mountains will be humming 

With the happy song of spring, 
And the chickens will be hatching 

In that incubator thing. 
So we'll keep the fire a-heating 

Till the eggs begin to pop, 
And their little wings a-growing 

Till their big enough to flop. 

The old stockade's a-booming, 

All we lack now is a school, 
She is coming tO' the front 

Like the Dutchman on the mule. 
We'll have incubator chickens 

And hoppers by the peck, 
If we only had a railroad 

We would have a railroad wreck. 

We can hear the dog wolf hollow 

In the foothills for his mate. 
And see the shy kioolee 

When the: day is getting late. 
Cowboys thick and plentiful, 

And they always treat you well, 
And everything is humming 

At the old stockade corral. 

Van Sagendorf is coming back. 

He's as fat as any pig, 
His horses, too, are looking well, 

Old Sallie, Sam and Nig. 
Jase Jo well, too, another chum, 

I think I hear him yell, 
And we all meet together 

At the old stockade corral. 

I'm glad that Jim is coming back 

And rowing up the tide. 
For I feel sort of lonely like 

Since the old gray pony hied. 



104 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

But had he only lived till spring 

I hardly thing he'd died; 
So now I have no circus horse, 

I only have his hide. 

We will have a cowboy picnic 

When the Fourth it comes around, 
And we'll have some pitching bronchos 

That will shake the very ground. 
The tablecloth for dinner 

Will be white as any sheet, 
And the fiddle will make music 

For the cowboys' willing feet. 

We will whiten up the cabin floor 

And rosin up the bow, 
While the mavericks join the roundup 

In a way that won't be slow. 
Cowboys and girls a-dancing 

With their light angora schapps, 
And grandma sitting grinning 

In her calico and wraps. 

The old stockade's a stunner, 

She has plenty of room and air, 
Plenty of good, clear, cold water 

And plenty of grass to spare. 
Of course, we have no wonders 

Such as twenty-story shacks, 
But lots of bear and bobcats. 

And sometimes cougar tracks. 

Here we have no city beauties. 

Nor we nave no city crooks. 
But we have a great plantation 

Like you read about in books. 
Here you feel a joyful gladness 

Like a mantle wrap your soul. 
And the clouds of melancholy 

From Despair's dark island roll. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 105 

Here the bright and smiling- sunrise 

Early lightens up the room 
And drives away the darkness 

When a soul is plunged in gloom. 
Here we have no pesky agents, 

Nor the crazy city swell, 
But we have just prime perfection 

At the old stockade corral. 

The old stockade is lovely 

In the good old summer time, 
When the doggies are a-browsing 

'Mong the flowers and the vines. 
So come along cowpunchers, 

We will entertain you well 
With good eating and good drinking 

At the old stockade corral. 



In Those Old Round-Up Days. 

{Song.) 



I left my home a wandering lad. 

And bound to see the world. 
While father said, ''Oli, Tommy dear, 

Your wandering flag unfurled, 
You have a mother, old and gray, 

A father good and kind ; 
Your mother's heart will break for you 

If you leave her behind." 

I went toward the setting sun 

That lights the evening sky. 
My heart Vv^as light, my eyes were bright, 

For I was young and spry. 



106 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

I saw the buffalo on the plains, 

The Red Man in his home, 
'Twas then I thought of mother dear 

When far away did roam. 

In this wild land I cast my lot 

With the roundup and the range, 
And here IVe rode and here I've roamed, 

And here I've seen a change. 
Today the range is all fenced up. 

Long grass no longer waves. 
And the poor old measly locoed sheep 

Feed round the cowboy's grave. 

I found the' boys good riders there, 

And the bronchos rather rough. 
But quick and) limber as an eel, 

And made of Western stuff. 
You can talk about gymnasium clubs 

And the, athletic exercise, 
But give me a bronk for the real old stuff, 

And the dust from the rano^eland flies. 



^fe' 



For thirty years I've rode or roamed 

O'er mountain, hill and plain, 
My feet have trod the hunting grounds 

Where buffalo have been slain. 
My eyes have viewed the roundup camp, 

Where punchers had full sway, 
And many a bronk would buck the game 

In those old roundup days. 

I now extend a friendly hand 

To the boy of long ago. 
To the old range land and the old range man 

When the roundup wasn't slow. 
I now take off my Stetson hat 

To the boys of then and now, 
To the old-time days, to the old-time ways. 

To the long-horned steer and cow. 



A 



, ) 




108 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Down at the Alamo. 

{Song.) 



A solemn thought comes o'er me, 

As I stand gazing round, 
To think that I have wandered 

From Texas' sunny ground. 
I love old sunny Texas 

And the days of long ago, 
When those brave heroes fought and fell 

Down at the Alamo. 

Aw^ay down on the Brazos, 

Where burning sands are deep. 
Away down there at Alamo 

The dead were piled in heaps. 
Away down in this southland 

Sleep the men of long ago. 
Who fought and fell so bravely 

Down at the Alamo. 

The flowers bloom as sweetly, 

The grass grows just as green, 
And in memory lives those noble men 

Bright as a silver sheen. 
But what an awful change has been 

Since the days of long ago 
Since those brave heroes fought and fell 

D'own at the Alamo. 

Long years ago the mustang 

Made the rangers' fiery steed. 
Where once the shaggy buffalo 

And the long-horned steer did feed. 
Those w^ere the days of long ago 

When the cowboy then could ride 
With elbow room to swing his rope 

Where 'twas sunnv, lone and wide. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 109 

The sands of time are running, 

The years go quickly by, 
Tomorrow we'll be old folk, 

Quite ready then to die. 
Then when our earthly spirit 

Returns to God again, 
May we say, Dear Father, judge us, 

As we judged our fellowmen. 

The Lone Star state is coming, 

Marching right up to the front, 
Her citizens are loyal, 

You hear no whine nor grunt. 
"Come down and live among us," 

She whispers soft and low, 
"You will find a hearty welcome 

'Mongst the friends of Alamo." 

Yes, friendship still is dear tO' us, 

And friendly hands the same, 
With friendly ones to help us some 

While bucking- at life's game. 
So here's to the state of Texas, 

To the men of long ago, 
Who fought and fell in battle 

Down at the Alamo. 

I love the state of Texas, 

She fills my heart with pride, 
I love the state of Texas, 

'Cause she's sunny, lone and wide. 
I love her sunlit prairies, 

I love her burning sand, 
I love all her wide border 

Obt to the Rio Grande. 

Hurrah for sunny Texas, 

Let it ring fromi sea to sea, 
For it's down in sunny Texas 

Is where I want to be. 



no RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND 

Hurrah for Sammie Houston, 

A man that wasn't slow, 
And hurrah for those brave heroes 

That fell at Alamo. 



The Cowboy's Wild Song to His Herd. 



One beautiful nig"ht when the moon was full, 

And the air was crisp and clear, 
A cowboy lay on the starlit plains 

And thought of his home so dear. 
He thought of his mother he loved so well, 

And the slumber of sleep was blurred, 
Not a sound to be heard but those of the night, 

As he sang a wild song to his herd. 

The cattle are laying so quiet and still 

On the carpet that mantles the West, 
While the golden lamps from the sky of night 

Sing peace to the cowboy's breast. 
Still he thinks of his mother in the far away land, 

And his thoughts by its; memory are stirred, 
And he sees himself back to the old home again, 

As he sings a wild song to his herd. 

He is far from the din of the city noise, 

Where the lamps of folly do shine. 
He is far from the brawls of the dives of sin 

And the flow of the sparkling wine. 
He is in the great West with its mantle of green, 

Where his neighbors say never a word, 
A land of mirages, mountains and plains. 

Where the cowboy sings low to his herd. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES HI 

The Rustler Gets the Blame. 



There's a big boy up on Bridger, 
And I see he's made a kick, 

He speaks about some rustlers, 
Who of late are very slick. 

As he stands in his old cabin 
And looks out upon the bluff, 

He says the weather has been fine. 
But noAv it's awful rough. 

Now he steps from out the cabin, 
Views the archw^ay of the sky, 

And he sees the pesky doggies 
Have been climbing awful high. 

Then he walks back in his cabin 
With a woe begotten frown — 

I wish that bloomin' critter 

Would quit roarin' and come down. 

He's been up there a week or more, 

His mother down to^ feed, 
But I never will go after him, 

He's got the loco weed. 

When feed's put out next morning 

The critter still is there, 
And the other hungry doggies 

Gulping dow^n its little share. 

Then Fred does some awful thinking, 

Acts though about to cry, 
But he doomed it to destruction. 

So alas, the calf must die. 

This is the way in many a case 
Where the rustler gets the blame, 

Their carcasses grace the hilltop 
And likewise the public lane. 



112 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Well I've said enough, I g*uess, 
And no longer will detain, 

But look up a bloomin' carcass, 
And perhaps it will explain. 

So go on, put up your cabin 
And plant your garden seed, 

And drive those hungry critters down 
From off the loco' weed. 



Getting My Old Calf Pants Washed. 



I send you in my old calf pants. 

The only ones I've got, 
For three long months I've cherished them 

Until they took the rot. 

Of course I hate to send them in 
They are so smooth and slick. 

They cover my long, limbering" shanks 
Where on the calves do lick. 

I think the guard is stuck on them, 

I seen him give the v/ink, 
As if to say your pants are stout — 

I think perhaps they stink. 

I would like to have another pair, 

But I'll not ask for them. 
And all the guards with one accord 

To this will say amen. 

So wash them clean, take off the smell. 
And fix them where they're tore, 

And send them out to me again 
To last three months or more. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES US 

Early Days of the Cherokee Strip. 



These verses I have written I hope you all will read, 
And to their simple story I trust you will give heed ; 
My name is nothing extra, it is neither Jim nor Joe, 
But when I have no golddust I am always on the go. 

We now will leave the thirsty strip for twenty days or 

more, 
Go to the state of Kansas, where we have been before; 
We have lots of heat and sunshine, but it's hard to live 

on wind, 
I see the boomers of the Strip are getting mighty thm. 

The Strip has got the measles and we'll pull out for the 

" mumps, 
For I hate to see poor hungry men a-wrestling with the 

dumps ; 
So we'll harness up the dear old mules and go off on 

the fly. 
For when we leave the Strip, you know, it's root hog or 

die. 

We have lots in the Strip to be thankful for, you bet. 
For when the weather isn't hot it's mighty cold and wet; 
We have rattlesnakes and centipedes, but cannot name 

the rest, 
And when the sun shines out the day it soon goes down 

the west. 



But we are coming back again when the geese begin to 

flock. 
When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder's in 

the shock ; 



114 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

We'll tie up here on White Horse and have a good old 

time, 
Onr neighbors are so far apart we never hear them 

whine. 

But when we do get home again, you bet we will be glad, 

Where the sandburs are a-booming and the wolves are 
mighty bad; 

We will whistle for the monkeys and we'll dance a jam- 
boree, 

While the dog has got the opossum and the coon is in 
the tree. 

O'h, the crowing of the roosters and the barking of the 

dogs, 
And the hiking! of the rabbit as he hikes into a log; 
The bawling of the cattle and the braying of the mules, 
And the rattling of the wagon and the clinking of the 

tools. 

It sort of makes us boomers feel it good to be alive, 
And can watch the little honey bee a-humming to her 

hive ; 
When we can eat our dinners with an appetite that's 

great, 
And can get away with supper long before it's very late. 

Everything is booming like a river in the Spring, 
For the Strip is now a-coming and a-trying hard to sing ; 
The yellow spotted pussy cat is running to the south, 
And our little kids have got a running at the mouth. 

Everything is moving with power, love and will, 

For the Strip has got its sweetness and the Strip has got 

its swill; 
See them coming in their wagons from little Eastern 

lanes, 
A-gallivanting Westward a-squabbling for the game. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES HJ^ 

Now we are back again, and thankful, too, for that, 
Our cattle they are rustlers and are getting mighty fat; 
The ducks are all good swimmers, but the creek is nearly 

dry. 
But it's big pig or little pig, it's root hog or die. 

We are all just as happy as an Oklahoma dream. 
Or a monkey in the kitchen or a kitten in the cream; 
Our baby is a-grinning like a woodchuck on a rock, 
And her little tongue a-clickin' like a tickin' of a clock. 

Nature is a-trying to get on her bran new dress, 
And the rolling plains a-shining with springtime loveli- 
ness ; 
Oh, I tell you that she's spinning like a pickaninny top, 
And our tub of joy is brimming and it seems about to 
slop. ' 

O^ur sorrow's turned to gladness and our gloom is put 

to route. 
Our joy is getting deeper and our faith begins to sprout; 
The prairie dogs are barking and a-sneezing with the 

Oh, I tell you we are thankful that we live out in the 
Strip. 

Yes, we are back again and a-feeling mighty good,^ 
We wouldn't leave the Strip, no, we wouldn't if we 

could ; 
And if you want to call a while and sit down on the 

floor. 
Remember that the latch string hangs outside the cabin 

door. 



116 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



Stolen Shoe Strings. 



After having my shoestrings stolen out of my shoes 
in the loafing shack I wrote the following verses and put 
them up where all could read them : 

NOTICE. 

There is a thief, a sneaking thief, 

A shoestring stealing cur. 
Who lays around this loafing shack 

To steal from him or her. 

But since there is no her about 

I think it must be him, 
But say, old pard, a chance to ride. 

I think is rather slim. 

I think 111 take my shoestrings out 

And put my shoes away, 
For if I don't this stealing cur 

Will steal themt both today. 

Bring back my shoestrings now, old pard, 

Or I may rip and snort, 
And you may reach the dark, dark hole 

They have at this resort. 



A few days after my shoestrings were returned, 
hung up by the looking glass, with the following verses 
from someone, "Begging Beggs' Pardon" : 

''You say there vv^as a him around 

And that there was nO' her. 
And that's the very reason why 

You made use of word cur. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 117 

"Your laces they were taken 

In an idle sort of way, 
And because I had use for them 

Was the reason they did not stay. 

"In speaking of the dungeon, 

Why, it seems hke regular sport, 
And the same about your holler 

And your cheap old rip and snort. 

"Now like a good Samaritan 

I bring the laces back to you, 
And hope you have the gumption 

To acknowledge favor, too. 

"Your pardon to me I hope you grant 
And that you do not feel offended, 

And if you will comply with this, 
Why, then my labor is ended." 



In reply I wrote the following verses and hung them 
up in the same place : 

PARDON GRANTED. 

I want to say to you, dear sir, 

When I was in despair, 
I saw upon the looking glass 

Those laces hanging there. 

My heart received a little shock, 

Then to them I drew near, 
And from their perch I took them down, 

How sweet they did appear. 

Like peach buds in the morning dew, 

Or roses in full bloom; 
Those verses decked with old shoestrings 

Soon drove away my gloom. 



118 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Your verses, too, well set to rhyme, 
Like the fisher's old hornpipe; 

With thanks to you I'm frank to say 
The writer is no snipe. 

The reason that you give, old pard, 

Is an unfailing sign 
That inhumanity to man 

In human hearts recline. 

A pardon, yes, I grant to you 
With honor great and high, 

As beautiful as the rainbow. 
Transparent as the sky. 

And when I cross old Jordan stream, 

Beyond the Great Divide, 
I hope to find you there, old pard, 

A-sitting by my side. 

He replied by writing the following verses : 

SHOE LACES. 

''What peculiar things do happen 
From a little sort of thing, 

And bring about results 
Of which all po€ts sing. 

'Those laces were a godsend 

It does appear to me, 
For now it has me started 

Writing verses, as you see. 

"I may not be proficient. 

But hope to be in time. 
As able as the ablest 

To make my verses rhyme. 

''Anything for recreation, 

As you hear some people say. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 119 

Mig-ht be risky in some instances, 
But hardly in this way. 

"To meet on River Jordan 

Would make my bliss complete, 
But I don't know what St. Peter 

Has written on my sheet. 

"My fears are not unusual, 

As I presume you know, 
For I doubt if we, a person, 

Can tell where Spirits go. 

"The wedding suit I've never worn, 

But think some day I may. 
If I can find the proper girl 

And with me she will stay. 

"I do not think that lace shoes 

Are the proper thing to wear, 
So I will wear the rowells 

If I climb the golden stair. 
Yours, etc." 



I replied to him in the following verses, but never 
got any reply. I never found out who it was. He knew 
me, but I did not know him : 

SHOE LACES. 

You see, old pard, dear sir, and friend, 

Our verses come and go, 
Just like the seed that's cast abroad 

Which we poor mortals sow. 

I'm glad you found them there, old pard. 

Above that looking glass, 
Where spicy verse with shoestrings old 

Entwined the little mass. 



120 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

I don't know who you are, old pard, 
I can't make out your name, 

But trust that you shall yet walk up 
The gilded path of fame. 

The wedding suit I spoke about, 
And the one no wealth can buy. 

Is the one which gives a title 
To the mansion in the sky. 

That's the one we both should strive for 
In this world of want and woe, 
: Where the devil fires the furnace, 

And his work is never slow. 

\ But to win a prize like this, old pard, 

Takes courage, faith and hope 
To climb the ladder round by round 
And tug upon its rope. 

To be a bright and shining light 
In this dark world of sin, 

To lift a fallen brother up 
While hardened devils grin. 

May ray of love and light and truth 

Along your path be seen, 
Till God points out a resting place 

Where you may love to lean. 

We seem to all be fastened here 
With selfish cares and ties. 

But prison sorrow cuts a string 
And urges us to rise. 

Goodbye, dear friend, come once again 

And visit me in rhyme 
While loitering round this old resort 

To pass away the time. 
Goodbye. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 121 

Naming the Baby. 



Put on your brand new calico' 

And grease my Sunday boots, 
And climb onto the wagon, 

For we're going over to Tute's. 
I have just been down to Tutie's 

And have come home awful quick. 
For Tutie named the baby, 

And the baby now is sick. 

I'll feed the mules some oats and eggs, 

Say a dozen, two or three, 
And you shall hold the whip, dear wife, 

The ribbons give to me. 
For Tutie named the baby, 

And she named him good and fine. 
Called him little young Joe Lucifer 

John Wesley Stewart Kime. 

Of all the names Fve read about, 

In poetry or prose, 
I think this one will take the lead. 

And surely take the rose. 
I tried to wTite it down, dear wife, 

But goodness what a time. 
To write little young Joe Lucifer 

John Wesley Stewart Kime. 

Although I'm middling good to write 

I couldn't write it right. 
But still I tried and tried again. 

And tried with all my might. 
Tutie then just wrote it down. 

And wrote it in no time. 
And wrote little young Joe Lucifer 

John Wesley Stewart Kime. 



122 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Talk about your pretty womien 

And your fickle minded men, 
But here's a name that's long enough 

To set the world on end. 
If it isn't a prize taker 

You can have that pup of mine, 
It is little young Joe Lucifer 

John Wesley Stewart Kime. 

Our mules you know are goers, 

Like hubby on the dock, 
We are hastening now to Tutie's, 

We are traveling by the clock. 
It is sure a rushing business 

And must be there on time 
To see little young Joe Lucifer 

John Wesley Stewart Kime. 

Oats and eggs are just the stuff 

For bony mules I'm sure. 
And it really is surprising 

What a drive they will endure. 
Two strong miles a minute. 

Says Paddy on the Rhine, 
Will catch little young Joe Lucifer 

John Wesley Stewart Kime. 

We are turning now the corner, 

We are hitting hard the road, 
We are reaping now the harvest 

That we long ago have sowed. 
We are getting there like Eli, 

And getting there on time. 
To gaze at little young Joe Lucifer 

John Wesley Stewart Kime. 

Only just about a minute more. 
And isn't that first-rate ? 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 123 

Now Tutie sees us coming 

And is standing at the gate. 
Doesn't she look happy though? 

And how the pate does shine 
Of that Httle young Joe Lucifer 

John Wesley Stewart Kime. 

His little pate is balder 

Than the top of Teton Peaks; 
And his little chin in sympathy 

With the dimples in his cheeks. 
His little nose and eagle eye 

Is a sure and certain sign 
That it's little young Joe Lucifer 

John Wesley Stewart Kime. 

How he came to get this comic name 

Lm sure I cannot tell, 
But according to my measurement 

It is six foot and an ell. 
But Tutie named the baby, 

And she named him good and fine, 
Called him little young Joe Lucifer 

John Wesley Stewart Kime. 



124 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



The Tar Daubers of Shady Bend, Kansas. 



To the Shady Bend tar daubers, 

Oh, shame upon you men. 
The proper place for you to land 

Will be inside the pen. 
Oh, what a shocking shame it was 

To treat a lady so. 
How degrading and how devilish, 

How shameful and how low. 

McNamaras used the dynamite, 

The Shady Bend the tar. 
But Justice with her own right hand 

Has swat them all a scar. 
A prosecutor rallied forth 

And hurried to the field. 
He cinched the guilty triflers up 

And cinched them till they squealed. 

It's hurrah for California, 

The land of orange bloom, 
Where the orchards and the gardens 

Are filled with sweet perfume. 
But pity the McNamara boys, 

Who in the pen reside. 
And where so many men drift in 

To cross the great divide. 

It's hurrah for sunny Kansas, 

That great sunflower state, 
But shame upon tar daubers 

Who are trembling for their fate. 
Yes, change the name of Shady Bend 

And scour up your town, 
And by your clean and spotless lives 

May live your scandal down. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 125 



A Stampede in North Dakota. 



Talk about your milling cattle and stampede on the 

plains, 
When ever a critter going like a southbound lightning 

train, 
When the heavens are black with darkness, frowning 

like the child of sin 
And heavy hailstones falling- with a fierce, terrific wind. 
When the lightning vivid flashes shows up an angry sky 
And you see the long-horned cattle going past you on 

the fly, 
When the peals of mighty thunder seems to shake the 

very dome, 
It is then the old cowpuncher lets his thoughts drift off 

to home. 

When horns and hoofs are clinking you have hardly 

time to think. 
For their double- jointed motions are like skaters on a 

rink ; 
Fall in behind the outfit, you may jump or swim the 

streams. 
And if they still keep running you may find them in your 

dreams. 
So swing into the saddle with your slicker buttoned tight 
And dodge the breakneck bagger holes by flashes of the 

light, 
And if you ride till morning I will bet a horse you'll eat 
An oven full of biscuits and a whole hind leg of meat. 

It was up in North Dakota and a-way late in the fall, 
We had a lively stampede as the wind set up a squall ; 
They belonged to Wadworths Brothers from the little 

Missouri range, 
And they ran for nearly forty miles through country 

rough and strange. 



126 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

They started east at Big Square Butte, run to Knife 

River Flats, 
Soaked through and through, with steers all gone, and 

cold and wet as rats, 
On the river flat we lay that night with rain a-pouring 

down, 
And not a dry thread anywhere about us could be found. 

"When a storm comes down a-swooping when you're 

riding on the plains 
And the chilly damps of morning starts your rheumatiz 

again. 
When your bones ain't got no marrow and your stom- 
ach's empty, too, 
And there ain't no smell of coffee to change the grey to 

blue." 
When you shiver to the marrow as you crawl from out 

your bed 
And go feeling in your pockets for a wrap to tie your 

head. 
It is then when you're at breakfast I will bet a horse 

you'll eat 
An oven full of biscuits and a whole hind leg of meat. 

"We never carry old forty rods in bottles old or new. 
For us fellows on the ranges know what tangleleg 

can do ; 
But let me ask one question, When a puncher rides all 

night, 
Keeping track of running cattle with the lightning for 

his light," 
And he's sick and soaked and sleepy riding hard all 

through the night. 
Would you grudge the poor old puncher one good big 

honest bite? 
Then sit him down to breakfast and Til bet a horse he'll 

eat 
An oven full of biscuit and a whole hind leg of meat. 




'And they ran for nearly forty miles through country rough and 

strange." 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 127 

Well you see those cattle grazing near the top of that 
divide, 

They're the ones we punchers rounded after forty miles 
of ride; 

And a wetter, colder outfit you never yet have seen 

A-leaving old Knife River as the sun began to gleam'. 

But I guess we'll all live through it, and our old cow- 
ponies, too. 

But I have not yet forgotten how those long, lean, wild- 
eyed doggies flew; 

And when we got round to breakfast I'll bet a horse 
we ate 

An oven full of biscuits and a whole hind leg of meat. 

Where storms come hard and sw^ooping I have roamed 

for many years, 
But to look about on the old-time range, it almost brings 

the tears; 
For the sheep have eat off all the grass till bare as my 

old boots. 
And today the robbers still are there a-gnawing at the 

roots ; 
Yes, they still keep coming, they are crossing every 

bridge, 
And the stinking old range robbers cover nearly every 

ridge ; 
You will hear the sorghum peelers as a storm upon the 

ground 
When the crazy old sheepherder with his stinking sheep 

comes round. 

Cowpunching now is done away and the land is all cor- 

raled. 
Bought up by wealthy sheepmen and fenced to a fare- 

you-well ; 
The long-horned steer has gone away, they could not 

stand the scent, 
They crowded in their stinking sheep, and off the range 

they went. 



128 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Well, we've had our time of riding through blizzard and 

the storiTi', 
So I guess you'll not begrudge us a smack of something ' 

warm; 
It is good, hot, smoking biscuits, and I'll bet a horse 

we'll eat 
A yard of apple butter with a whole hind leg of meat. 

Just a little one-horse roundup is all we have today, 
While cowpunchers ride the grub line and have a funny 

way; 
But I guess I'll not be kickin', she is off with me, I'm 

done, 
For I'm like an old cow pony that's forgotten how to run. 
I'll trade off my rope and saddle and give my gun away 
And go down to old Missouri, and there I'll live and stay, 
And dream of the old-time cow songs and the ones I have 

forgot, 
Will I forget you then, old pard? Well, no, I reckon 

not. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 129 



When Lillie Roundup Throws Her Rope. 



When Lillie Roundup throws her rope 

She casts a figure four, 
As it goes twirling through the air 

For thirty feet or more ; 
And as it drops around the steer 

It is an amusing sight, 
For Lillie with both feet is there 

A-sitting taut and tight. 

The estimation of herself 

In her own eyes are great; 
She says she's champion roper, 

The best that's in the state. 
Young Lillie is a pretty girl 

With wavy light brown hair, 
As beautiful as Pete Pillman's wife 

And almost twice as fair. 

'T wish I had a swifter horse," 

She said one day to me, 
"Then I would challenge anyone 

No matter who he'd be. 
Bill Dulin has a dandy horse, 

I wish that he was mine, 
I believe that I could rope and tie 

In just two seconds' time." 

"I have a little sorrel out there 

Somewhere by Buzzard Butte, 
I'll go and catch him up tonight, 

A cinch that he will suit. 
When you first swing in the saddle 

He may act a little strange. 
But say, he's a real *go get her' 

And the peach of all the range." 



130 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

"Thank you, old pard, I wish you would 

And have him in on time, 
And I will practice up a bit 

And show you where I shine." 
That night the little sorrel came in, 

A truly noble mount, 
But when he made a prospect trip 

He made it cjuick and stout. 



The little sorrel next morning 

Was brought into the string, 
A-stepping high and fancy 

To the tune of the Highland Fhng. 
The punchers all grew anxious. 

As all good punchers do, 
And Lillie wvas a-watching themi 

With her great eyes of blue. 



When everything was ready 

The circus then began. 
Then hurrah for Lillie Roundup, 

Come beat her if you can. 
She walked up to Mr. Broncho 

Like a brave, sweet little girl, 
Swung herself into the saddle 

As the bronk began. to whirl. 



Three jumps, five jumps, twenty, more or less, 
Up hill, down hill, everywhere, I guess; 

The bronk has his baggage, Lillie has the game, 
Five dollars, ten dollars, she rides him all the same. 



Suniish, catfish, always on his feet. 

Wild bronk, merry bronk, pitching is complete; 
Long winded, double jointed, acrobatic clown. 

Ten dollars, twenty dollars, plank the: money down. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 131 

Little bronk, big bronk, turning left and right, 
Thirty jumps, forty jumps, isn't he a fright? 

Hairy bronk, wild bronk, Lillie's doing fine — 
Forty jumps, fifty jumps, riding all the time. 

Side step, two step, but can't shake her off. 

Sixty jumps, seventy jumps, bronk begins to cough; 

Lillie's in the saddle, the reins in her hand, 
Riding Mr. Broncho just to beat the band. 

Bad bronk, mad bronk, ride you plum to death. 

Eighty jumps, ninety jumps, better take your breath; 

Wobbly bronk, sick bronk, sides begin to thump, 
All in and called in and can't make a jump. 

Now Lillie Roundup is the girl 

That does look good to me, 
A thousand others by her side. 

No one so good as she. 
She rode that pitching broncho 

From Besheba unto Dan, 
Hurrah for Lillie Roundup, 

Come beat her if you can. 

Now Lillie with her sunny eyes. 

We call her Lil for short, 
Is just the sweetest little flower 

That blooms in this resort. 
And bring on your pitching bronchos 

If you are on the pike, 
And little Lillie Roundup 

Will ride them all alike. : 



132 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



Montana, the Gem of the West. 



I will sing of Montana, the gem of the West, 

And a wonderful story relate; 
I will sing of the charms, the crops and the soil 

Of the marvelous great Treasure State. 
It's a wonderful country, surpassingly fine. 

Where the hand of the Master doth rest. 
Where the Angel of Peace plants the flowers of love 

To bloom on the trail of the West. 

Of course we are proud of this great Treasure State, 

And proud of her mansions and spires ; 
It speaks out the throbbings of- our frail hearts 

And fills us with greater desires. 
Here dreams of the future will come and will play, 

And around your old hearthstone will rest, 
And there they will circle around and around. 

Clinging fast to the core of your breast. 

Here the cheery old sun with its bright shining rays 

Warmly kisses Montana's green sod, 
And whispers a message to you and to me 

To come and walk under His rod. 
Here long grasses wave and sweet flowers bloom 

'Midst the fragrance of sweet scented air, 
While Nature a mantle of beauty spreads out 

To drive from your soul every care. 

Here ditches with water are all brimming full 

To water the green growing crops. 
And fruit trees so burdened with luscious fruit 

Are crying aloud for some props. 
The wild gooseberry bushes are loaded 

With fruit that is perfect and large. 
Growling down by the creeks and the guUeys 

Without an expense or a charge. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 133 

Here winding old cowtrails are hid' as from view, 

Creeping out of the tall, wavy grass. 
And swift mountain streams so pleasing to see 

Are full of the trout and the bass. 
Here uplands are rich as her valleys, 

And her valleys as rich as the Nile, 
And the big bumper crops when responding 

Spreads over your face a great smile. 

Here sweetest wild flowers in their pretty gay dress 

In bewildering profusion abound. 
While lead, iron and copper, silver and gold 

Across her wide border is found. 
Here is beautiful scenery, resplendent and grand, 

In g-arments of purplei and green. 
Where swift brimming rivers go tumbling on 

Across this great state to be seen. 

Not a bronk has bucked off his baggage 

In order to try and explain. 
Not a cow that has nipped her green grasses 

But is waiting to do so again. 
Not a soul vv^io has trod her wide border 

But today do tenderly yearn. 
Not an eye that has viewed her green valleys 

But are longing again to return. 

To spend their few days, seasons or years 

In a country so wonderfully blest. 
Where the Angel of Peace plants the flowers of love 

To bloom on the trail of the West. 
Then pass to their rest and quiet repose 

In a land where the long grasses wave. 
To sleep under skies that are sunny and blue, 

In an earth covered casket, a sod covered grave. 

Montana, Montana, the fairest of lands ! 

Montana, the bright gem' of the West! 
Let me live all my days in your beautiful land. 

Sup thy milk and thy honey, thou are dear to my 
breast. 



134 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Give me home, peace and plenty, give me sunshine and 
storm. 

While I in thy border do dwell ; 
Keep the gaunt wolf of hunger away from my door, 

Then to all other regions will I murmur farewell. 

Look across her wide border, see her cattle and sheep, 

That feed on her sweet, juicy grass; 
See her thousands of horses, her timber fringed streams, 

Alive with the trout and the bass. 
See the rotten old bones, the horns and the hoofs, 

The remains of that great buffalo herd 
That the white man pursued till he slaughtered them all, 

While the government said never a word. 

See her homes and her cities, her girls and her boys, 

Look to their swing and their sweep, 
Their vim and their vigor, their push and their go 

And the rich, golden harvest they reap. 
Come gather her honey, come sup her rich milk, 

And here in her border abide ; 
Come fence in a garden, come plant out a tree. 

Come be a light and a guide. 

Sincerely I love this sweet land of Montana, 

To me she's the climax of years. 
And as I look to her rainbow of promise 

I smile through my season of tears. 
Her meadows and her hills are the greenest 

And her mountain peaks crested with snow ; 
She's a park of great beauty, charming with splendor, 

Spread out for us \yooT creatures below. 

My soul is enraptured as I view the fair scene. 

So charmingly and beautifully dressed. 
And of all the great states of the Union 

Montana is the one I love best. 
It's a wonderful country, surpassingly fine. 

Where the hand of the Master doth rest, 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 135 

Where the Angel of Peace plants the flowers of love 
To bloom on the trail of the West. 

Then come to this Eden and this wonderland see, 

Come look on her mountains and plains ; 
Her seed time and harvest both walk hand in hand, 

While cloudland sends down her good rains. 
Come gather her harvest, come eat the good bread. 

Where the hand of the Master doth rest; 
Come fence in a garden, comie plant out a tree, 

To grow in the gem of the West. 



Drifting Around. 

Perhaps you have run on the ranges of sin 

And fed where the pastures were dry. 
Perhaps you have sat in the scoffer's great seat 

While the old gospel rider went by. 

Perhaps you have gone all the days of your life 
With no knowledge of God and His love. 

Perhaps you have turned from the shadowless light 
Streaming down through the archway above. 

Perhaps you have traveled the rough mountains of sin 

And rode the black canyon of doubt. 
Perhaps you have drifted around and around 

Till you're puzzled and lost on the route. 

But why should you dwell in the dark swamp of sin 

And eat the sad bread of despair, 
When in the green pastures of life there is feed 

For a soul that is famished on care. 

Then why sit like a statue so lifeless and cold, 
With your hands hanging down by your side, 

When God is so willing to lead you right through 
To a land where you long may abide ? 



136 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

The Wife That I Loved So Well. 

{A Song.) 



Across the hills of sorrow 

A prisoner toiled one day, 
He had felt the curse of Eden 

Since ere he'd went astray. 
He felt life's burden heavy 

And his spirit was depressed, 
In rain or storm or sunshine 

His mind could find no rest. 

He thought of his dear old mother 

And the wife he loved so well, 
He thoug-ht of his own dear children, 

What a story of life would tell. 
He thought how his friends forsook him 

When the day of trouble came, 
How they left him there in prison 

To cover him deep with shame. 

He thought of life's great purpose 

And how it had passed away, 
He thought of his old-time sweetheart 

And he thought of his wedding day. 
He thought that his life was useless. 

Like an egg with a broken shell, 
But with him in all his rovings 

Goes the wife that he loved so well. 

I know my days are numbered, 
For I feel quite frail and weak. 

And I would like to see my sweetheart. 
And I want to hear her speak. 

I hate with loath and scorning 
The doom of a prison cell, 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 137 

For it tore from my OAvn bosom 
The wife that I loved so well. 

So now I'll keep on roving 

Till I travel this world all round, 
And I think of her as often, 

As often as the sun goes down. 
For I know my years are wasted 

Like the strand of a broken thread. 
Feeling void of all ambitions, 

And I know that my hope is dead. 

My pleadings were most tender, 

My call both loud and long. 
But the echo from the hilltops 

Brought back the same old song. 
I have felt the wound severely. 

And have felt the pain most sharp. 
And I feel that my life is useless 

Like a string on a broken harp. 

The needless pain Fve suffered 

And the lonely nights of woe, 
I hope no other creature 

May ever undergo. 
For years I've called in anguish. 

But no answer is returned, 
Like a dead leaf in the forest, 

Or the ashes from the urn. 

I wish I could solve the problem. 

Oh, won't you tell me how ? 
For I love the flowers of friendship 

And to them always bow. 
My hope once strong as an anchor, 

But now it has been slain. 
And I feel the hard, cold pressure 

Like the wind through a broken pane. 



138 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Not a friend on this old planet, 

Not a child I can call my own, 
Not a home in this wide valley. 

So there's nothing to do but roam. 
But still there's a consolation 

Coming as from a broken shell, 
That with me in all my roviqgs 

Goes the wife I loved so well. 

Oh, could I but meet my darling 

Where the Western sun reclines, 
I know the spark would brighten, 

I know that the fire would shine. 
Cursed be the gate of a prison. 

And cursed be the prison cell, 
For it tore from; my own bosom 

The wife that I loved so well. 

My mother in the churchyard 

Where a stone of marble rears, 
My wife away out yonder 

And her children in their tears. 
While I, a lonely pilgrim:. 

Must stem both storm and tide. 
But I'll meet her in old dreamland 

Till I cross the Great Divide. 

But across the hills of sorrow 

There blooms the flower of peace, 
Where I see the wounded gather 

And I see them get relief. 
I see no broken heart strings, 

I see no teardrops start. 
But I hear the sweetest music 

Like the strains from David's harp. 

As a flower in the forest 
And a serpent by its side. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 139 

So the foes of man are lurking, 

His footsteps to betide. 
Like the froth and foam of the ocean, 

Or a river underground, 
We all are swiftly hastening 

To that sod covered mound. 

The springtime brings her beauty 

And the winter brings her sleet. 
So death is surely coming 

To give me rest that's sweet. 
Oh, could I only meet her 

Before King Terror comes, 
I would put my arms around her, 

But my lips would be dumb. 

When the heart and mind is shattered 

By the thoughts of a ruined life, 
When the strings of hope are severed 

By folly's cruel knife; 
When the lamp of life is feeble 

And it's flam.e is dim and low, 
There's a cloud of solemn sadness 

Falling round you as you go. 

Oh, if she would only answer 

And bid me hope once more, 
Oh, if she would send me greetings 

It would heal this heart that's tore. 
It would make us both more happy 

If we would together dwell, 
And I'd end life's checkered journey 

With the one I loved so well. 

I would gather the children round us 

To comfort our old age. 
We would love and live together, 

Let storm or tempest rage. 



140 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

There joy and i>eace and kindness 
Would hold together fast. 

Blotting out the faults and failings 
Of all the cruel past. 

Then I would be so happy, 

The clouds would roll away, 
And we'd live just like old sweethearts 

Until our dying day. 
The wind would carry the tidings, 

The sun would brighter shine. 
Sending down her benediction 

On that sweet wife of mine. 

But I'll bear my troubles bravely, 

No one shall hear my groans, 
I'll borrow smiles and laughter 

To stifle all my moans. 
I will love her as strong as ever. 

Though a thousand miles apart, 
And would like to have her company, 

For she has got my heart. 

So I'm lonely and forsakened. 

My bright hopes have fled, 
My days and years are wasted 

Like the strands of a broken thread. 
But I'll journey on with my burden 

A frail and broken shell. 
And with me in all my rovings 

Goes the wife that I loved so well. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 141 



A Happy Home, 1892. 

We in our happy home, dear wife, 

Our absent ones may see. 
While loving arms about us twine 

Like tanbark to a tree. 
'T would be a sad, sad thought, dear wife, 

To think we loved in vain, 
Our happy dream of long ago 

Would give but burning pain. 

The flight of time rolls on, dear wife. 

It haunts me more and more. 
And in the happy dream^ of night 

See those I've seen before. 
How quick the time does pass, dear wife. 

The evening and the day, 
They seem to chase each other 

Like children in their play. 

We ventured on life's sea, dear wife, 

With vessels weak and frail, 
The storms have often threatened us 

And tried to tear our sail. 
Our boats were just the thing, dear wife. 

Good lifeboats true and tried. 
Which safely rode the angry waves 

While others foundering died. 

Olir riches are not great, dear wife, 

Yet hard we've toiled and worked, 
No matter what discouragement 

We never played the shirk. 
We are not as poor as some, dear wife, 

We have never lacked for meat, 
If sometimes just a little scarce 

Close picking made it sweet. 



142 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Our honeymoon still lasts, dear wife, 

Though fifteen years have gone 
Since you walked up to the marriage chair 

And the bridal veil put on. 
But now we both grow old, dear wife, 

And what do you think of that? 
The rosy glow of youth is gone 

Like Thompson's spotted cat. 

A few short years ago, dear wife, 

When both were young and fair, 
Two loving hearts together grew 

And formed the marriage chair. 
And in the good old chair, dear wife, 

Together we have rocked. 
While passion stonns struck others hard 

We never have been shocked. 

Our children, too, we love, dear wife, 

And they just number three, 
While little Jay lies far away 

Beneath the southern tree. 
Our hearts are very sad, dear wife. 

When with the silent dead 
They part from us to meet no more 

Until the seas have fled. 

Yes, one by one they go, dear wife, 

To slumber and to sleep. 
Until the sea gives up her dead 

And leaves her ancient deep. 
The sweetest flowers you know, dear wife. 

Will always fade and die, 
They come and bloom for a little while 

And then how soon they fly. 

It makes me sad to think, dear wife, 
That we'll be called to part, 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 143 

For Death is a cold, cruel foe 

And loves to pierce the heart. 
They say it comes to all, dear wife, 

I feel it must be true, 
But drop on us thy hovering wings 

As falls the evening dew. 

The gilded cords of love, dear wife, 

By age they say will break, 
But we will love each other more. 

As Hermon loved the lake. 
The sunny days of youth, dear wife, 

With us are past and gone. 
But still we'll hold our houeymoon 

As silvery hairs come on. 

While walking up the hill, dear wife. 

Two hearts have beat as one, 
And now we'll journey down again 

With yonder setting sun. 
I could not cause you pain, dear wife, 

Nor from you could I roam. 
But fair sweet flowers will I seek 

And twine them round our home. 



144 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

The Darkies Are Leaving Oklahoma, 

{A Song) 



Oh, the darkies am offended 

And are gwine to emigrate, 
They are leaving Oklahoma 

To find a better state. 
But you better stay with uncle 

And get you all a home, 
You sure can do the pickin' 

If you've only got the bone. 

Here we have a great big country 

And a thousand sort of things. 
An easy road to travel, 

So we have no use for kings. 
Olir president is a stunner 

With a mighty sight of gall. 
But I reckon that he needs it. 

For he's up against them all. 

Here we have the grandest country 

Beneath the shining sun, 
In science and inventions 

We only have begun. 
Here we have the flag of colors, 

The red, white and blue, 
The good man and the bad man. 

The loyal and the true. 

So' you better stay with uncle, 

Who will surely pull you through, 
It's the foot that gets the pinching 

When we're putting on the shoe. 
But of course I'm not dictating, 

For I know it is no use. 
You may chew your own tobacco 

And may also spit the juice. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 145 

Yes, you better stay with uncle, 

He's a great and mighty man. 
When he calls for help their coming 

From Besheba unto Dan. 
He is true and loyal hearted 

And will use you well, I know. 
You can get the coon and opossum 

If you only get the dough. 

When Aunt Dinah pats the juba 

And all am feelin' fine. 
Oh, what a happy people 

As the stars begin to shine. 
See the pickaninnies prancing 

By the dim light of the moon. 
And the colored belle a-dancing 

When the fiddle is in tune. 

Soi go to Oklahoma, boys. 

And go right away, 
For the darkies am a gwine 

And I guess they're gwine to stay. 
But they better stay with uncle 

And get them all a home. 
They sure can do the picking 

If they've only got the home. 

But of course I'm not dictating, 

For I know it is no use. 
You may chew your own tobacco 

And may also spit the juice. 



146 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

For That Bronk Will Throw His Rider 
Away Out in Beulah Land. 

{Song.) 



Away out in the country on the far Pacific slope 
Roams a little lady rider with her saddle and her rope ; 
As she swings into the saddle with the reins in her hand 
She's the picture of old Ireland to grace the Beulah land. 

Now what's the matter, Hannah, are you goiqg' to ride 

that horse ? 
I thought he had you buffaloed, I really did, of course; 
You may swing into the saddle with your courage and 

your gall. 
But something will be doing when that bronk begins to 

bawl. 

I am sure it is no picking to ride a wild cayuse 

On a cold and frosty morning when the saddle cinch is 

loose ; 
Though your feet are in the stirrups and the reins are in 

your hand, 
Yet that bronk will throw his rider away out in Beulah 

land. 

Raven locks are beautiful, with eyes of sunny blue. 
But yet that ornery cayuse has no respect for you ; 
Some cold and frosty morning you will hear an awful 

squall, 
And oh, there'll be a parting when that bronk begins to 

bawl. 

I want to tell you, Hannah, it ain't no safe retreat 
To mount a wall-eyed broncho when he's laying for 
your meat; 




'And some girl zvill find a landing when the hronk begins to bazvl. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 147 

Your spurs may be engravened, have a shining silver 

band, 
Yet that bronk will, throw his rider away out in Beulah 

land. 

Now listen to me, young cowgirl, and don't you be so fop 
For your tub of joy is brimming and is just about to 

slop; 
Some morning after breakfast there will come to you a 

call, . ^ ^ 

And oh, an awful parting as the bronk begms to bawl. 

Yes, some morning while at breakfast the flapjacks being 

fine, 
You will eat close to six dozen in about ten minutes trnie ; 
Then you'll swing into the saddle with the reins in your 

hand. 
But that bronk will drop his baggage away out in Beulah 

land. 

Now come all you jolly cowgirls who ride the Western 

plains, 
Come stay with the wall-eyed broncho till he breaks the 

bridle reins ; 
For if you don't you'll miss it, you will surely hear a 

squall, . 

And some girl will find a landing when the bronk begms 

to bawl. 

Then swing into the saddle, boys, when you hear an 

awful squall. 
For some girl has found a landing as her bronk began 

to bawl; 
Yes, swing into the saddle, boys, with the rope in your 

hand. 
For the bronk has thrown his rider away out in Beulah 

land. 



148 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

The Land That I Love, or the Roundup 
Coming Through. 

{A Song.) 

I am going away to the land that I love, 

In sweet sunny southland I'll roam, 
And there under skies that are sunny and blue 

I will build me a snug little home. 

Where the redbirds do whistle and the mocking bird sings 

And the stars their glory do shine, 
Where the oak and the ash and the willow tree grow 

To stand with the hemlock and pine. 

Where the sweetest wild flowers bedeck the green sod, 

As they do in Erin's green isle. 
And the! song of the woodland compels you to stay 

And romp with old Nature a while. 

Oklahoma, Oklahoma, is the land that I love, 
And I love her green pastures and lanes. 

And the Red Men well named you ''the beautiful land," 
As they gazed o'er your wide spreading plains. 

Oklahoma, Oklahoma, "the beautiful land," 

And this you will never deny, 
For the leaves of your forest and the grass on your plains 

Grow under a sunny blue sky. 

Your leafy old woodland is a joy to behold 

By those who are famished with care. 
But the cloud of despondency soon pass away 

As they rove through your sweet scented air. 

Oklahoma, Oklahoma, I love thy fair land 
And you have a warm place in my breast, 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 149 

I can never forget you nor your sunny kissed hills 
As I rove through the wild woolly West. 

I love your old rangeland, though mangled and tore, 

And the wound is still bleeding today, 
But the white man they say has a balm that will cure, 

But I can't really see it that way. 

Yes, I loved the old long-horn as he used to appear 

To gaze on your green grassy sod, 
But the happy dry farmer has come with the years 

And over your threshold will trod. 

Like the old Indian tepee your cowboys have gone. 

No more will they circle the herd, 
No more will they listen to the song of the wind 

As the leaves by the breezes are stirred. 

No more on your rangeland will the cowpunchers meet 

To ride on the merry roimdup, 
No more will the tenderfoot heave a long sigh. 

As the old pitching bronk wins the cup. 

Your sunny old rangeland is mangled and tore 
And your riders have lost both the reins, 

Your chuck wagon's empty, your saddles uncinched. 
Since the long-horn is gone from the plains. 

Like the Indian and buffalo they have gone the long trail 

And we see their footprints no more, 
But a feeling of sadness sweeps over my soul 

When I see them today as of yore. 

When I first seen your rangeland great joy filled my 
heart 

As I came o'er the old beaten trail, 
Now the city club boosters, dry landers and all, 

Come into the country by rail. 



150 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Oklahoma, Oklahoma, bright jewel of years, 
Where the corn and the cotton both grow, 

Where the rainbow of promise spans the archway above 
To cheer us poor mortals below^ 

Your archways as blue as pretty blue bells 

That twine in some grass bedded dells. 
That speaketh in language so modest and meek 

Its love for the land where it dwells. 

Oklahoma, Oklahoma, sweet dreams of the past 

Are oftimes awakened by thee. 
Though far from her border a pilgrim does roam 

You are not forgotten by me. 

Yes, I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming again, 

To roam o'er your sunny kissed hills. 
While the old roving spirit throbs strong in my heart 

I can but remember you still. 

Where the sweetest wild flowers grow o'er your green 
sod 

Like they do on Erin's green isle. 
And the song of the warblers so' sweet to the ear 

Just fills your whole soul with a smile. 

Yes, I'm going away to that land that I love, 

Where the skies are so sunny and blue, 
There I'll sit and I'll wait, but I'll wait all in vain 

For the old roundup coming through. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 151 



Home on the Rangeland. 

My home is on the rangeland, far away from any town, 
In the shelter and protection of the Rockies' lofty 

crown. 
Where such inspiring grandeur, such lookings are in 

sight, 
When the moon is playing checkers with the shadows 

of the night. 

And the grandest little brooklet, just as jolly as can be 
In its prancing, dancing manner sings its lullaby to me. 
I can hear it in the twilight, in the sunset after-glow, 
I can hear it in the moonlight, as the fire-fly passes 
slow. 

When the banquet meal is ready and you are about to 
dine, 

Floating 'round about the table comes the breath from 
off the pine. 

Happy are the little children reared in a home so rude, 

Eating in the mountain fastness, sleeping in their soli- 
tude. 

Here's the place for nature lovers, in this far-secluded 

spot, 
With nature cutting antics where the Master's hand 

has wrought, 
Where a man in health and gladness will appreciate its 

worth. 
Drinking from the gushing fountains pouring out of 

Mother Earth. 



152 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



The Locoed Sheep. 

{Song) 



When you get to be a loco 

How happy you will be, 
A chasing squirrels and rabbits 

And barking at the tree. 
A funny way of walking 

And looking 'round for dope, 
Makes even mule-eared rabbits 

Go sideways as they lope. 

The coyotes, they won't kill you; 

They think you are too tough. 
Your meat has got the flavor 

Of loco, sure enough. 
You can see all horrid creatures 

A dancing on the plains, 
And scare the dry-land farmers 

'Till they want to leave their claims. 

I think you need some fixing. 

For you're shaking in your boots; 
You are living now on loco 

And feasting on its roots. 
'Till you find this weed of virtue 

You are Johnny on the trot, 
And like Old Davy Crockett, 

Stand grinning at the spot. 

You had better go out fishing, 

Away up in a cloud; 
With a green hoop pole for suckers 

And your chariot rumbling loud. 
You would surely get some whoppers 

If you had a lasso rope, 
But you have to keep a walking 

And looking 'round for dope. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 153 

You are an old booze-fighter, 

And you have got its curse; 
And like the old booze drinkers, 

Are getting worse and worse. 
If you could only reason 

I would take you by the neck 
And drag you to a looking glass 

To gaze at this old wreck. 

You will fight this weed of loco 

Until your life will end 
A dope-fiend and sang-rooter 

And a real old loco friend. 
Some day you'll go star gazing 

Out on the loco flat 
Where you'll leave your locoed carcass, 

I will bet my Stetson hat. 



The Cowboys' Last Retreat. 

{To my friend Flood.) 

Well, Flood, old pard, cold, cruel fate 

Hath dealt us both a blow; 
And as we sit in prison garb 

We sadly know it's so. 
The days ! how long they do appear, 

The nights appear the same; 
Here we have time to view the past 

And try to hide its shame. 

Us cowboys, by our reckless ways. 
Have often found the snare 

That tripped us up and held us fast 
To sweat in deep despair. 



154 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

With storms upon the sea of Hfe 

We sometimes run amuck; 
Rough billovv^s toss our empty barque, 

To try our cowboys' pluck. 

There is a way that seemeth right, 

To man of woman born. 
It leads him to the door of death — 

Forsaken and forlorn. 
Oh, why will we poor mortal men 

Forever court distress. 
While on we ride at breakneck speed 

Great evils to caress. 

There is a better way to live. 

And a better way to die ; 
The stripes we wear today, old pard. 

Make plain the reason why. 
Prepare to ride the upper range, 

Where the round-up herd will feed, 
Where the grass is rich with the juice of life 

To satisfy your need. 

There the round-up boss is good and kind. 

And the flower of love doth grow: 
You'll find some old-time cowboys there, 

Who rode on the range below 
And were caught by the gospel round-up, 

On the range where they long had sinned 
And the brand of life now glow and shine 

With a luster there undimmed. 

Come, put your name on the big brand book, 
Ere you pass to the great divide ; 

Come spread your bed by the river of life, 
Where the range is big and wide. 

There you can roam the sun-lit plains — 
The cowbovs' last retreat ; 



A BOOK OF WESTERN J'ERSES 155 

There you can stay with the round-up herd, 
Where the water is clear and sweet. 

There you can range in pastures green, 

Away from the child of sin; 
And drink from the clear, cool stream of life 

And have no foe within. 
There you can look with eyes undimmed, 

When the sun is setting low 
On rosy clouds of rainbow^ hue, 

Caused by its after-glow. 

Only a few more days, dear friend, 

And your pardon you regain ; 
And may you love and cherish it, 

And prize it to retain. 
Farewell, dear friend, be good, old pard. 

May the world to you be kind. 
As you give the last, long lingering look 

To the ones you leave behind. 

And when outside, among your friends. 

Be honest, true and straight, 
And lend a hand to a brother man, 

And help him find the gate 
That opens up to the other range, 

Where the round-up herd vv ill feed ; 
Where the round-up boss with love and life 

Will satisfy your need. 



156 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Farewell to Montana, the Gem of 
the West. 



Fkrewell to Montana, the gem of the West, 

For I now have no wife, nor no home. 
I will bid you adieu, turn quickly away 

For sorrow compels m.e to roam. 
My children, come kiss me, ere I am away 

To journey the road that is drear. 
The parting is painful and stifles my breast. 

When I fancy your voices I hear. 

Farewell to Montana, bright jewel of years. 

And farewell to its prison of shame, 
Where her cold, cruel walls, with iron-grated cells. 

Cast a shadow and blot on my name. 
I have stood on the summit of mountain and hill. 

And looked upon scenes that were fair. 
But a cold, cruel prison, home-trouble, and sin 

Has furrowed my brow with your care. 

Farewell to Montana, sweet land of the Wiest. 

Yet you still are as dear to my heart 
As the day of my childhood, around the old home. 

That from me can never, no never, depart. 
So your charms long will haunt me where ever I go 

And o'er my sad bosom will roll. 
On plain, hill or valley, or surf-beaten coast, 

You Avill be to my heart, what you were to my soul. 

Not a friend have I left in this great treasure state. 

Where I once was so happy and free; 
They are gone like the snow flake that kissed the proud 
wave. 

As it danced on the sparkling blue sea. 
Gone like the sweet flowers when bitten by frost, 

Or dewdrops by the rays of the sun. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 157 

So I'll wander in gloom, with despondency veiled, 
'Till my roving on earth will be done. 

Farewell to Montana, sweet land of my liking, 

Where winds of misfortune have blown; 
When harvest is over, then I will be gone. 

To roam the wide world all alone. 
At the cabin on Bridger I have tarried quite long, 

'Till the cold winter snow would go 'way. 
But the grass now is growing, the sun shining bright, 

And I have not much longer to stay. 

Farewell to Montana, thou pearl of great price, 

Farewell to the trail of the West; 
And as I go forth, faith leads me along 

With the flowers of peace in my breast. 
I leave not behind me a grief -stricken wife, 

With children caresses to dwell. 
But far, far away, to a land west of this 

Live the ones that I still love so well. 

May their slumber be sweet in the stillness of night, 

When the stars in their glory look down. 
And recall in bright vision the joys of their youth. 

While the blessings of love did abound. 
May the silvery moon in her journey of night, 

Speak gently to her of the past, 
And cover with mantle that one hasty choice 

To be blighted and parted at last. 

It is hard to be parted from wife and from home. 

When misfortune has cast her dark frown; 
It is hard to be happy, when despondency come 

And throws her dark shadows around. 
But when storms of great fierceness sweep over my soul 

And dangers my pathway beset. 
Yet beyond the dark cloud shines the rainbow of hope 

For my Jesus is still with me yet. 



158 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Farewell to Montana, to the land of the gold, 

Farewell to the gem of the West; 
I'll cherish sweet memories of thee when away, 

And mantle them deep in my breast. 
Your mountains and hill tops, rivers and. rills 

Just make me look up wnth a start; 
Bringing strength to my muscles and light to my eyes, 

Giving health to my soul and my heart. 

Farewell to Montana, the great smiling land, 

And farewell to her rich and her poor; 
May her soil in great plenty yield well her increase. 

And blessing descend 'round your door. 
The soil that in childhood my footstep has pressed 

Shall nourish the flow^er that blooms in the West, 
And ril cherish sweet memories of thee when away 

And mantle them deep in my breast. 



Oklahoma, Meaning Beautiful Land. 

(Song.) 



Oh, let us look back to that country again 

Far away to the sweet Sunny South, 
Where the mocking bird wakes us so early each day. 

With the sweetest of songs from his mouth. 

Where the redbirds whistle in the cottonwood groves 

That skirts the Canadian shore. 
And the whippoorwill's song we will hear once again. 

As we heard long ago from our door. 

Where the peach and the apple both flourish and grow 

In that beautiful land far away; 
Come, let us go, let us go to that beautiful land, 

In that beautiful land let us stay. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 159 

There we can feast till our hearts are content, 

On cherries that are juicy and red, 
And strawberries, too, that will melt in your mouth ; 

Will you go? I will go, I have said. 

There are melons so large you can't eat one at all — 
It would take a whole day more or less — 

And nice sweet potatoes so sappy with juice — 
I could eat a full dozen I guess. 

Dear wife, let us go to that land of thy dreaming, 
Where the summers are tinted with azure and gold; 

Where the winters are soft with life's music throbbing. 
And night with its moonlight has glory untold. 

Land of the sooners and the boomers of old, 
Land of the Cheyenne and the Arapahoes, too; 

Land of the cotton, the wheat and the corn, 

Basking in sunshine where the skies are of blue. 

What's the use living in a land where we're freezing. 
And spend all our money for fuel and coal; 

Where the storm and the blizzard both feel for your life. 
And poverty feels for your soul. 

It's a land of great orchards where the fruit is the best 

That grows in the sunshine or wet; 
Oh, land of great promise, fair land of my dreams, 

How can I, how can I forever forget. 

Here the meadow lark sings in. the cottonwood trees. 
When the leaves by the zephyrs are stirred, 

And the howl of the coyote is heard in the hills. 
Where the cow-boy sings low to his herd. 

There fruit and flowers both flourish and grow. 

In old Oklahoma, sweet land; 
Won't you go, won't you go ? and there let us stay 

In that country so great and so grand. 



160 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



Flanigan's Pan Cake. 

The experience of an old school teacher keeping hack 
and baking pancakes. 

Flanigaii, the bachelor, Hved up in a hall, 
As a baker of pancakes he was the pride of them all; 
His clothes were all grease from his feet to his head, 
And grease all the way from stove to the bed. 

'He came home one night and it must have been late, 
For he rushed about madly and he wished for a mate ; 
He said to himself when a man's forty-four 
And has bached it ten years he should bach it no more. 

I am. up every morning exactly at seven, 
And when breakfast is ready it's half past eleven; 
And he stamped down his feet, it's the pest of my life — 
I wish to my soul I had a good wife. 

Ah, said Flanigan, it is useless to fret, 

I will bake a big fellow that will last, you bet ; 

I'll dress myself up like a bit of a fairy, 

I'll drive away trouble or play the old Harry. 

So he greased his griddle from bottom to top, 
And poured in the batter with a flippity flop; 
When the griddle got hot, why the batter did too. 
And the hotter it got the faster it grew. 

It grew out of the griddle in a very short round — 
In an hour from that it weighed ninety pounds; 
It lay on the stove and rested quite well — 
He crammed in the wood, it grew and it swelled. 

When the pancake was done it reached to the door, 
On the right and the left it covered the floor; 
And of all the great pancakes that ever was baked, 
None ever equaled the Irish pancake. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 161 

He ran for the door but he could not get out, 
Then he started at once for a different route; 
With his foot on the floor and his arm on the cake, 
He tried to get up but he couldn't quite make. 

He succeeded, however, in making hi-s escape, 
But he sprained his ankle in making the leap; 
With wondering eyes he peered in at the door, 
For he never saw such a terror before. 

The pancake loomed up like a ship in a fog, 

With high and low places like knots on a log; 

The inside was juicy with very large holes. 

And looked for the world like there might be some gold. 

So he broke off a chunk and carried it away, 
To the assayer's office to see would it pay; 
The assayer took it and put on the test, 
And said that the chunk was one of the best. 

One thousand, said he, it would run to the ton — 
The finest gold ore found under the sun; 
Ore like this chunk shows a very rich streak — 
I believe in my soul it came from Hahn's Peak. 

While the old assayer was testing the ore, 
Flanigan was laughing his sides really sore ; 
But he made him an offer for the cake as it lay — 
Forty-five thousand and all in good pay. 

Flanigan's pancake brought a very large sum, 
But the old assayer was the one that was done; 
He employed forty oxen to haul it away, 
And fifty brave Irishmen to work by the day. 

At the mouth of the canyon they thought it the best, 
For the light-hearted Irish to put on the test; 
They blew it wide open and, oh, such a fake, 
And the Irish were covered with batter from the cake. 



162 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

A long train of Irish soon started for town, 
And worse looking Irish could never be found; 
For the bold witty Irish were heavy with woe, 
For Flanigan's pancake had given them its dough. 



Give Me the Woman Who Loves 
the Fresh Air. 



Oh, give me the woman who loves the fresh air, 
Her cheeks will be rosy and her countenance fair; 
She wnll rise from her slumber as fresh as a lark, 
Have a sweet disposition from daylight till dark; 
She will raise up the windows and open the door, 
She will polish the stove and scrub up the floor. 

In the far away West where love has its source, 
This little brave woman will ride the wild horse; 
(Let him rear on his haunches or twist in the air^ — 
Three cheers for the woman who stays with him there; 
See him go to it, now watch her ply to the quirt, 
Here's proof without asking that this woman's no flirt. 

Oh, give me the woman with a warm loving heart, 
Where kindness and sympathy both have a start; 
Where tender compassion sits there as a queen, 
Where Judgment and Justice with Wisdom is seen. 
Such a woman with natural endowments is blest, 
And here they will sparkle like gems in the West. 

Her children, like rosebuds, will be sweet and as fair 
As the sunbeams and moonbeams that falls on their hair ; 
She'll be clean, neat and tidy, her teeth like the pearl — 
Good natured, good mannered like the real Western girl. 
So give me the woman who loves the fresh air, 
Her cheeks will be rosy and her countenance fair. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 163 

You will find all the women who love the great West 
Have a sense of wild freedom that throbs in their breast; 
They'll run you a footrace — did you see how she grinned ? 
See her hair hanging down keeping time with the wind. 
Yes, give me the woman who loves the fresh air, 
Her cheeks will be rosy and her countenance fair. 

So here's to the brave woman of mountain and plain, 
I give her my hand and rejoice in her reign; 
In danger she's fearless and in love she is strong, 
Her path is all sunshine and her home is all song. 
So give me the woman who loves the fresh air. 
Her cheeks will be rosy and her countenance fair. 

Oh, give me the woman who loves with a zest 
Her chickens and turkeys in a home of the West ; 
Though her home be it humble her heart will be warm 
Through sunshine and tempest, through blizzard and 

storm. 
Such a woman as this is as dear to my hear 
As the joys of my boyhood which cannot depart. 

She's the pride of the ranch in her up-to-date gown. 
And the queen of the city when she goes to the town; 
She's as fair as a rosebud when encircled with dew, 
And a gem of perfection both priceless and true. 
So give me the woman who loves the fresh air, 
Her cheeks will be rosy and her countenance fair. 



164 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



On the Bellefouche Far Away. 

Talk about your pretty countries and a climate all 

superb, 
Where the ranchers are all wealthy with their horses and 

their herds, 
Where every one is welcomed and they want a thousand 

more 
To settle in their country to prospect or explore ; 
It's the Black Hills lovely region, where the wild horse 

used to stray. 
In the South Dakota country on the Bellefouche far 

away. 

The red men loved this hunting ground — it used to be 

their home — 
Where the elk and shaggy buffalo around them there 

did roam; 
It was here they held their green-corn-dance and lit 

their council fire, 
They roamed this region o'er and o'er to fill their 

heart's desire ; 
And from the Black Hills highest peaks this valley could 

survey. 
In the South Dakota country on the Bellefouche far 

away. 

The noble red man now is gone from where they used to 

dwell, 
Caught in the white man's roundup and drove to a fare- 

you-well ; 
They cheated them out of their land and to this you 

say, ahem, 
But the devil he will deal with you as you have dealt 

with them. 
The tomahawk and scalping knife are not in use today, 
In the South Dakota country on the Bellefouche far 

away. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 165 

The red men with their mighty chiefs are forced from 

off the land, 
Caught by the white man's roundup and drove to the 

barren sand. 
Old Sitting Bull, an old Sioux Chief, was brave as 

brave could be, 
But now is gone to his hunting ground — was killed at 

Wounded Knee. 
No more the Sioux that country raid, revenge has had 

its sway. 
In the South Dakota country on the Belle fouche far 

away. 

The great and noble red man has not been treated right — 
The white man took away their land and forced them 

then to fight. 
The tomahawk and scalping knife then played an active 

part, 
And many a pale-faced soldier fell when arrow pierced 

his heart. 
Away from home and loving friends to perish and decay, 
In the South Dakota country on the Belle fouche far 

away. 

Rain-in-the-Face, once mighty chief, has gone to raising- 
stock 

On the big Missouri River at the old place — Standing 
Rock. 

They seem to be contented there and happy with their lot, 

Forgetting all the old-time raids and battles that they 
fought. 

The old war bonnet and war shirt no more are used 
today, 

In the South Dakota country on the Belle fouche far 
away. 

The South Dakota country is a land that's bright and 
fair — 



166 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Most of her braves have crossed the ridge to meet the 

others there; 
And may they reach their hunting grounds and always 

there reside, 
Where all their pale- face enemies will have to camp 

outside. 
May he who gave them power to wield the tomahawk in 

war, 
Give them more peace and happiness than they ever had 

before. 

The Black Hills are so lovely when the western sun 

reclines. 
When the wooded hills and valleys throw forth the 

scent of pine. 
Nature there is beautiful on a scale that's great and 

grand, 
With the sunset throwing kisses that western winds 

have fanned. 
Her canyons draped in splendor and mystic beauty 

sways, 
In the South Dakota country on the Belle fouche far 

away. 

Her canyons great and mighty with transcendent beauty 

hung, 
That my vivid imagination to the highest pitch is strung; 
And I see the great Creator sitting on the circling earth, 
In His hands he holds the colors of the rainbow since 

its birth ; 
And He spreads those lovely garments, so beautifully 

and so gay. 
In the South Dakota country on the Black Hills far 

away. 

So come where lovely scenery glows and sun-lit valleys 

shine, 
Where wooded hills and grassy vales throw forth the 

scent of pine ; 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 167 

Where sapphire hues are blended with the rainbow's 

graceful form, 
And mystic beauty lingers in the sunshine and the storm; 
Where moonlit nights are clear and bright and sunlit 

valleys lay, 
In the South Dakota country on the Belle fouche far 

away. 



When Lovina Was My Sweetheart So 
Many Years Ago. 

(Song.) 



'Midst the green fields of Ohio as the western sun 

reclines, 
When the evening breeze is playing with the morning 

glory vines, 
It is there my mind goes wandering and a rhyme begins 

to flow. 
When Lovina was my sweetheart so many years ago. 

When the silvery moon was climbing and the twinkling 

stars had come, 
Down the dear old dusty road the buggy wheels would 

hum; 
Then my heart would beat and flutter and my soul be 

all aglow. 
When Lovina was my sweetheart so many years ago. 

When the summer days were over and the cool autumn 

came, 
No frost could nip a blossom as sweet as Lovina' s name. 
Life is always worth its living, she would say it soft and 

low, 
This pretty little lover that I loved long years ago. 



168 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Oh! the fragrance of the breezes where the morning 

glory twine, 
With my lover sitting 'neath them as the western sun 

reclines ; 
The curtains of night are lovely and the moonlight tells 

you so, 
When you were out a-strolling with the one of long ago. 

When my roving, rambling nature takes me back to the 

dear old State, 
There I see that charming lover standing at the roadside 

gate ; 
A-standing and a-smiling as she always used to do. 
When I would say, ''Lovina, have you read that letter 

through ?" 

I have seen some lovely landscapes from swift onrush- 

ing trains, 
And have gazed upon the mountain tops while on the 

western plains. 
But the most inviting lover and who haunts me where 

I go, 
Was Lovina as my sweetheart so many years ago. 

I am sure I cannot help it but Tm wondering all the time, 
Will we ever meet together where the western sun 

reclines ? 
Will I feel again that pleasure, like a river in its flow, 
Strolling- with that old-time lover that I loved so long 

ago? 

Will we talk the many happenings and the changes that 

have come? 
Will we whisper love together or will our tongues be 

dumb ? 
Will we count again our friendship where sweet wild 

flowers grow, 
And be again true lovers as we were long years ago? 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 169 

Oh. if I was only with her where the western sun 

recHnes, 
Out where the western breezes get their fragrance from 

the pines; 
I would give my summer wages if I could only know, 
Where this lover is a-rambling that I loved so long ago. 

Love, you know, is beautiful that stays and grows and 

shines ; 
Love, you know, is beautiful that hangs and twists and 

twines. 
Just now it sends its signals to the place I used to know, 
When Lovina was my sweetheart so many years ago. 

Lovina, the green fields of Ohio, have you forgotten 

now? 
And the promise that you made to me — I can't see really 

how. 
I would give my summer wages and a coon skin, don't 

you know, 
If you would be my swxetheart as you were long years 

ago. 



170 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



Leaving the Old Farm for the City. 

Old Mr. and Mrs. Plugmyer leave their quiet home 
for the city, and are led away by fashions, and become 
gay, but at last return to the old farm. 

I say, dear wife, we'll pack our trunks and to the city go, 
For out here in the backwoods the things do move so 

slow. 
You know, dear wife, I've toiled and worked to keep 

ourselves in rations, 
While you were galivanting round a chasing after 

fashions. 

We have been here in these backwoods just thirty years 

today, 
A-toiling and a-working, but I find it doesn't pay. 
We haven't seen the world, you know, or what the world 

is like, 
But just stayed here together since we've been man and 

wife. 

I'll tell you what we'll do, dear wife, I think it for the 

best. 
We'll move right off to the city and let the old farm 

rest. 
You may get a pretty dress and have it togged in 

fashion, 
And I will get a brand new suit and off we'll go a 

dashin'. 

We will have the best of everything that money can 

afford — 
You shall be my loving queen and I shall be your lord. 
We'll stroll together here and there along great pleasure 

streets ; 
A parachute we'll surely get to keep from us the heat. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 171 

We'll have breakfast gowns, dinner gowns and evening 

gowns, you know; 
Driving gowns and tea gowns enough to rig a show. 
The people they will wonder where we gathered all our 

riches, 
When they see me with my swallow tail and Philadelphia 

breeches. 



We'll have the second-hand man, you know, to make 

a call, 
And sell to him our furniture, our carpets and our all. 
To take this backwoods furniture to the city wouldn't do, 
But must have the nicest furniture and have it all bran 

new. 

This is a discontented w^orld and some day we may feel 
That we have made a great mistake when city life is 

real. 
Only a few more minutes, wife, and the wagon we will 

see, 
That from this old log cabin, dear, will hustle you and 

me. 

When we get there, I say, dear wife, we'll be a feeling 

fine ; 
We'll be the gayest of the gay and be it all the time. 
We'll buy a wheel apiece, good wife, and go out for a 

ride, 
And spin along the avenues and down by the river side. 

They are just the thing for ladies, if they wear divided 

skirts. 
And the girl that rides the pretty wheel often with her 

lover flirts. 
The women folks look scary, but they cannot stop the 

show- 
Of neat propelling feet and limbs as lovers come and go. 



172 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

It's get there Eli in the rush and join them in the whirl; 
I'll act young again, you know, and you just like a girl; 
And you, good wife, must get some curls raised on the 

heads of others, 
And be a belle and cut a swell exactly like your brothers. 

So we started out next morning long before the break 

of day, 
And left the old log cabin for the city bright and gay. 
I had on my brand new suit, my whiskers trimmed 

aright — 
It seemed I was dressed up so fine it almost hurt my 

sight. 

I do declare upon my word my wife was dressed most 

frightful, 
Yet she was tickled through and through, she thought 

it just delightful ; 
She was a blaze of splendor, no need you have to doubt ; 
'Her dress was loud enough to call the fire department 

out. 

She was a star of beauty as you often read in story — 
Just like a host of other stars but differing some in 

glory. 
In satin, sash and ribbons my wife was nearly hid; 
Much like the morning glory vine that hides the katy-did. 

With a pink belt ribbon round her waist she just lit up 

the sky. 
And peaked headed like, you know, she danced a little 

high. 
Her dress was rather low in neck, but very rich and rare ; 
Upon my word I couldn't dance — could only stand and 

stare. 

I thought her trim and neat enough for almost any 

preacher. 
And I was bound to fall in line if I had to hire a teacher. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 173 

So I got up a full dress suit to gratify my passion, 
And got a low-necked, bald-faced shirt to be up with 
the fashion. 

I shaved my old side-whiskers off, because they were 

unhandy, 
And on my chin I gew a bunch of whiskers coarse and 

sandy ; 
My old shirt sleeves I then cut off ten inches more or 

less, 
And at the ball that evening I entered in full dress. 

We danced all night in great delight and swift the hours 

flew, 
And through excitement of the night the morning quickly 

drew; 
But my old wife just took the cake, for she was pert 

and spry. 
And none of the younger ones could swing or even 

dance as high. 

We enjoyed ourselves so much that night wt had to 

sleep next day, 
But soon we blossomed out again as flowers do in May ; 
But then we soon grew tired of this and longed again 

to roam 
Along the old white picket fence around our cabin home. 

We left our dear old cabin home because life was so 

slow, 
And went to the horrid city and started in for show. 
Now we are willing to go back and never more to roam, 
Leave the fashions and the follies for the city folk at 

home. 



174 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 



The Horrors of a Prison Cell. 



Well, Pard, old boy, cold cruel fate 

Doth often seem unkind, 
And more severe to those who leave 

Their loved ones far behind. 
A term of years in prison garb 

Means anguish and despair, 
For pain and sorrow, strong and fierce, 

Is sure to meet you there. 

Gaunt Terror meets you at the door 

With all its hellish glare; 
The iron door with bars of steel 

Will deal you out your share. 
'Tis here you feel the galling pain 

Of sorrow's bitter tear; 
'Tis here the time is slow and long — 

Each day seems like a year. 

Man's inhumanity to man 

Is here most clearly shown, 
And here the prisoner in his stripes 

Must reap what he has sown. 
The mills of all the Gods grind on 

With a slow and sad lament. 
Until they grind your measured share. 

And then they seem content. 

You cannot see the ones you love — 

You can but see the wrong; 
While you can see and that quite well. 

The wall is high and strong. 
You see a convict in his stripes, 

A picture of your fate; 
For prison cells can only bear 

The fruit of shame and hate. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 175 

I know, Old Pard, and that quite well, 

And you do know the same, 
That every stone in this Corral 

Is branded well with shame. 
See that old stone box, the prison cell, 

Is barred with iron and steel. 
To hide the prisoner from the world, 

To smother all he feels. 

It's here you may forgotten be 

By wife and children kind. 
Though in your dreams you visit them. 

The ones you left behind. 
It's here you may forgotten be 

By brother and by friend, 
Unless the golden cords of -love 

Will draw them to that end. 

Man's rule of cruelty to man 

Has caused him long to mourn; 
It's drove him to a prison cell, 

For which he was not born. 
And here within the prison pen 

His life is marred and blurred, 
'Midst squeaking doors and clanking chains, 

He must not say a word. 

I know, old Pard, that you dislike 

To breathe the prison air ; 
It seems that whether good or bad 

You get the buzzard share. 
Here hearts grow hard and passions rage. 

That witness prison shame. 
And dark will be the blot on one 

Who bears a convict's name. 

They come to this great school of crime 

From Bethsheba and from Dan; 
They represent with one accord 

Man's cruelty to man. 



176 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Some are here whose time is Hfe, 
And some whose time is short, 

And some outside are on the road 
To reach the same resort. 

In vain may you expect reform 

Where teachers slap and shove; 
You cannot change the cruel heart 

But with the words of love. 
There's nothing here to help a man 

Should he wish to reform; 
Hate and revenge both mark the road 

That leads to sad forlorn. 

No good can come to cruel hearts 

That hard with evil pant, 
But like a child when whipped at school 

Will only rave and rant. 
It takes the tender words of love 

To thaw the ice-cold heart, 
To drive from it revengeful fire 

And make the hate depart. 

I truly sympathize with those 

Whose home's a prison pen 
For I have seen the prison chain 

That binds the prison men. 
Pride, hate and envy is the chain 

That long shall hold them fast, 
Unless the love of Jesus Christ 

Shall find a place at last. 

I point you now to Jesus Christ, 
The Lamb for sinners slain; 

Who once a visit made to earth 
And soon will come again. 

Oh ! come to this great glorious King 
And let him change your heart ; 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 177 

He'll walk with you and live with you 
And from you will not depart. 

We met in prison stripes, old Pard, 

I knew you were my friend, 
And may we still continue so 

Until our term shall end. 
And when you leave this prison pen 

I shall often think of you, 
For I have a large place in my heart 

For one so good and true. 

But here we have to stay, old Pard, 

Till freedom swings her gate, 
For we are convicts still, you know, 

Resigned unto our fate. 
And if we ask for anything 

We are sure to be refused, 
For convicts only wear the stripes 

And the guards they wear the shoes. 

And this I know full well, old Pard, 

That fearful passions burn, 
That grow and flourish every day 

And causes no concern. 
The school of crime here flourish well, 

Each one tries to betray; 
Oh! what a long great roll of crime 

For that great Judgment Day. 

Swing open now, ye mighty gate, 

And set this prisoner free; 
You've done so much for him today. 

Soon do the same for me. 
And when we meet outside, old Pard, 

Along the path of fame, 
Fll reach to you my hand again — 

I know you'll be the same. 



178 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Just to Be a Rancher's Wife. 



When the rosebud greets the lily 

And the lily greets the dew, 
And the sunshine and the shadow 

Have the shine a-woven through, 
And your heart is kind and tender, 

Beating free and full of life, 
There's a happy consolation 

Just to be a rancher's wife. 

But when the days are cloudy 

And the rain begins to pour, 
And the frosty stars to glitter 

And the winter wind to roar, 
And the fearful cold has reached you, 

Keen cutting as a knife, 
There is little consolation 

Just to be a rancher's wife. 

When Johnny eats green apples 

And you're forty miles from town, 
No matter what the hurry is 

The doctor can't be found. 
When the baby gets the colic, 

And a-screaming for its life, 
Oh, how awfully disgusting 

To be a rancher's wife. 

When the wife is worn and weary 

With four kids on her knees. 
And the bed bugs are a- fighting 

In the kitchen with the fleas, 
It is then you surely sicken 

With exasperating strife. 
And you feel it is disgusting 

To be a rancher's wife. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 179 

When the milk is strong with garlic 

And the butter it is too, 
And the taste has got the flavor 

And has got it through and through; 
Now your appetite has left you 

And you're almost sick of life, 
You know it's aggravating 

To be a rancher's wife. 

When Tutie has the measles. 

And Katie has the mumps, 
And the old dog Watch is threatened 

With a fearful case of thrumps; 
When green apple Johnny's crying 

'Cause he's got the stomach ache, 
And his mother wet and chilly 

'Cause she fell into the lake. 

When the chickens they won't cackle. 

And the roosters they won't crow, 
And the snow is still a-falling 

In a way that isn't slow. 
Don't you know that you can't cut it 

With that rusty-bladed knife, 
For your little strength has vanished 

Working as a rancher's wife. 

But when everything is lovely 

And the goose is flying high. 
And a thousand little blessings 

Along your pathway lie; 
When the children are a romping 

And crowing full of life. 
It is perfectly delightful 

To be a rancher's wife. 



180 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Far From My Happy Home. 

{Song.) 



I've wandered far from thee, dear wife, 

Far from my happy home; 
I've left the land that gave me birth 

In other climes to roam. 
But time since then has rolled its years 

And marked them on my brow. 
Yet I do often think of thee, 

I'm thinking of thee now. 

I'm thinking of the day, dear wife, 

When you stood by my side, 
And watched the dawning of my youth 

And kissed me in your pride. 
Your girlhood love was then lit up 

With hopes of future joy, 
Which your bright fancy wove for you 

To deck your husband boy. 

I'm far away from thee, dear wife, 

No friends are near me now. 
To guide me with a tender hand 

Or ease my troubled brow. 
The follies of this wicked world 

Have left their marks on me, 
And wandering on enchanted ground 

Find none to love like thee. 

I'm lonely and forsakened now, 

Unpitied and unblest, 
Yet still I would not have you know 

How sorely I'm distressed. 
I know you love me yet, dear wife. 

And will not give me blame; 
Come soothe me with your loving words 

And bid me hope again. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 181 

But I would have you know, dear wife, 

That brightest hopes decay; 
The tempter with his baleful cup 

Has dashed them all away. 
While shame has left its venom sting 

To rack with anguish wild, 
Yet still I think of thee, dear wife. 

Of mother, home and child. 

You knew, dear wife, that I was born 

With passions wild and strong, 
And listening to their witching voice 

Has often led me wrong. 
But as often as I go, dear wife. 

In error's pleasing track, 
There comes a soft and gentle voice 

That always calls me back. 

Our youthful days are gone, dear wife, 

We've felt their many cares, 
But always found some loving hearts 

Some wheat among the tares. 
Dear wife, could you but feel my pain 

While penning these few lines, 
The depth of feeling in your heart 

Would change to grow more kind. 

Oft in the dreams of night, dear wife, 

Your cherished face I see. 
Amid the old familiar scenes 

Where once we used to be. 
And as oft as I look back, dear wife. 

Along the waste of years, 
My heart fills up with sudden pain. 

My eyes fill up with tears. 

Yet still I look to thee, dear wife. 

No other can I know. 
To help me o'er life's thorny path 
* Where wintry winds do blow. 



182 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

I've seen yon sultry summer sun 

For many times return, 
And every time it proves to me 

There's many hearts that yearn. 

We wandered o'er the world, dear wife, 

On nature's trackless path, 
We've romped with children in their play, 

And joined them in their laugh. 
We've helped them pluck the little flowers 

That deck the early spring, 
And walked with them in twilight hours 

While mocking birds would sing. 

But now the sun of time, dear wife, 

Shines on the western hills. 
We soon shall hear the sunset gun 

And death's demand fulfill. 
Then may our souls in silent peace 

Resign life's joyless day, 
Our troubled hearts their throbbing cease, 

Cold mouldering in the clay. 

Quite rough has been the road, dear wife. 

Since last I saw your face, 
But what a joyful thought, dear one. 

My journey to retrace. 
The God of love may guide us yet — 

Long years before we part — 
When peace and righteousness have kissed 

To bind the broken heart. 

It is with tender love, dear wife, 

These lines to you I send, 
And as you read and ponder them 

Esteem them more than friend. 
Beneath life's evening setting sun 

I dedicate this page. 
To thee, thou lover of my youth, 

And my delight in age. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 183 

It's very hard to write, dear wife, 

When the wings of hope are cHpped; 
How hard it's been to drink the dregs 

That my own lips have sipped. 
But, farewell, dear wife, be good, old girl; 

May the world to you be kind, 
And send one hopeful, cheerful word 

To the one you left behind. 



To the Cranky Freight Agent. 

Alturas, Cal., 191 1. 



I thank you for your photograph, 

Which seems to be quite good — 
The very image of yourself 

When you before me stood 
And spoke insulting cranky words 

That could but leave their sting, 
A recompense of no reward 

To prophet, priest or king. 
But why send me your photograph? 

Why should you make the show? 
Why not send it to the round-house 

Of the little N. C. O.? 

Now, it surely is amusing, 

I am willing to admit. 
To have a one-horse railroad 

And a crank a-running it ; 
And to have a bonehead agent 

Stand up and call you down, 
Because you asked about the rates 

To some measlev little town. 



184 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

It sets a person thinking 
What a person ought to do 

To such a cranky agent 

When he gets in such a stew. 

Three cheers for the stage line, 

And a nickel for the show, 
That little one-horse railroad 

They call the N. C. O. 
They fire up the little engine 

And then she steams away, 
To get stuck in a little snowdrift, 

And there she has to stay. 
So they drag out Mr. Holigan 

From the little drift of snow, 
And wheel him to the round-house 

Of the little N. C. O. 

Now, good-bye, Mr. Agent, 

To forgive you sure I'll try, 
But it takes a quart of vinegar 

To catch one little fly. 
But if you have done caught him, 

Pray don't you let him go, 
But send him to the round-house 

Of the little N. C. O. 
I have met some cranky agents. 

But none to serve me so. 
As the cranky little agent 

Of the little N. C. O. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 185 



Farewell to My Saddle and Rope. 

I will now quit the range of the cattle 

To ride through the garden of love, 
For Jesus to me has just whispered 

Of a wonderful mansion above. 
So farewell to the wild pitching broncho, 

Farewell to my saddle and rope, 
For I've heard of a range that is better 

And my heart is filled with its hope. 

Farewell to the merry old roundup, 

Where all the wild punchers would meet 
With angoras, sombreros and stetsons 

And bright shining spurs on their feet. 
Farewell to the barbed wire fences, 

Farewell to the cattle within. 
Farewell to all my companions. 

Who feed on the ranges of sin. 

I am tired of seeing good riders 

Ride close to the whirlpool of hell, 
When Fm trying so hard to turn them 

Back home to the old corral. 
Farewell to the old chuck wagon, 

Farewell to the boss and his soap. 
For Fve heard of a range that is better 

And my heart is filled with its hope. 

Farewell to her grassy old rangeland. 

With her water so cold and so clear; 
Farewell to her rocky-ribbed mountains, 

Where her peaks so majestically rear. 
Farewell to her flower-decked gardens 

That fills with a joy and a hope. 
Where a cowboy has room too, and plenty. 

To gracefully circle his rope. 



186 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Farewell to her dreary old badlands, 

Farewell to her mountains and hills, 
Farewell to her lakes and her marshes, 

Farewell to her rivers and rills. 
Farewell to her sage and her cactus. 

Farewell to all this wide scope, 
For Fve heard of a range that is better 

And my heart is filled with hope. 

Farewell to the old bucking cayuse, 

Who's as onery as ginger and snuff, 
Who is springy and twisty and nervy, 

And knows how to deal you the stuff. 
Yes, farewell, Mr. Outlaw, I quit you, 

Here I pull off my saddle and rope. 
For Fve heard of a range that is better 

And my heart is filled with its hope. 

I am tired of the western roundups 

We have on the ranges of sin, 
Through the storm, the blizzard and sunshine, 

Cold, hungry and wet to the skin. 
So Fll now quit the range of the cattle 

To ride in the garden of love; 
It's as dear to my soul as the circling blue 

That arches the world above. 

Farewell to the wild western outlaw, 

Who always goes crooked and high ; 
No use for side-stepping and twisting, 

And it's little I care for your shy. 
So I'll pull off my saddle and blanket, 

Throw down my six-shooter and rope. 
For I've heard of a range that is better 

And my heart is filled v/ith its hope. 

Farewell, all you wild, jolly punchers. 
Who circle around the big herd ; 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 187 

I hold up to you a great Saviour, 

And point you to God and His Word. 

And you, boys, who are out hunting mavericks, 
You had better turn round and go back, 

For I've seen across the sad valley 
Where sorrow has made her big track. 

So I warn you, my gay, jolly fellows, 

As I give you my last parting hand, 
To turn from the trail of the maverick 

And put on the upper range brand. 
Get your soul well filled at the fountain 

And your feet with Salvation well shod, 
And be a bright light at the roundup 

As you ride on God's green grassy sod. 

Farewell to the wilds of Montana, 

Farewell to the gem of the West, 
For I guess I'm in time with her motion. 

And her charms have set deep in my breast. 
But farewell to her plains and her mountains 

And farewell to my saddle and rope, 
For I've heard of a range that is better 

And my heart is filled with its hope. 

Farewell to her clear brimming rivers. 

And her valleys where the punchers would stand 
Encircled around the wild critters 

To locate and read every brand. 
But I'm through with the saddle and blanket. 

And through with six-shooter and rope. 
For I've heard of a range that is better 

And my heart is filled with its hope. 

So I leave you, brave fellows, God bless you, 
Remember the words I have si:)oke. 

And turn from your sins to your Saviour — 
Come quickly, step under the yoke. 



188 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

For I now quit the range of the cattle 
To ride in the garden of love, 

For God in His Word has just spoken 
Of a wonderful mansion above. 

Come now, heed the words of the Saviour 

Come ride in the pasture of love, 
Come with me to a range that is better 

And a mansion prepared up above. 
So farewell to all the cow-punchers, 

Here I pull off my saddle and rope. 
And throw off my trusty six-shooter 

As I drift to this land of my hope. 



The Morning Glory Hills. 

Is a name applied by me to the Upper Stillwater 
country from the Red Bridge to its source. Here you 
can see the grandest of all scenery, the most inviting and 
the most inspiring. Here you can see battlements and 
domes and thrones decorated zmth nature's beautiful 
garments. Around them twines a mantle of leaves of 
many colors — tawny and brozmi, silvery and golden, the 
blue and the grey — all are here. Here you can see the 
rain and the rainbow^, the flozvers in their bloom, and 
the frost king in his frozen form; the mountains in all 
their vastness and their greatness. 

There's a thousand gems of beauty 

In this land we call our own. 
So just chum awhile with nature — 

Take a trip and be alone. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 189 

Go Up the far-famed Yellowstone, 

Or the Stillwater valley stream, 
And you'll feel that you are treading 

Where the mountain crystals gleam; 
When a beauty from the mountains 

Over all the landscape spills. 
And the sun shines in her splendor 

On the Morning Glory hills. 

Yes, a thousand gems of beauty 

Lie sparkling by your side, 
When the autumn leaves are falling 

In their crimson colors dyed. 
Here you'll see the brilliant rainbow 

Gleaming out above the storm. 
And the frosty king of winter 

Sitting in his frozen form; 
And here a mystic beauty 

Over all the landscape spills, 
When the sun shines in her splendor 

On the Morning Glory hills. 

From the rough and rugged mountains 

Now a golden chain is spun, 
To the highest peaks that glisten 

From the bright uprising sun. 
And, Oh ! those mighty mountains. 

With their faces glowing bright. 
And their foreheads turned to heaven 

And their lock so snowy white. 
Here they stand serene, majestic, 

When the sun begins to spill 
Her rosy blushing blushes 

On the Morning Glory Hills. 

Take a trip to old Montana, 

And see the sweep and swing; 
Where the people are true as metal. 

And the metal has the ring; 



190 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND 

Where the stars at night are gHstening 

From the dome of heaven's blue ; 
Where you can chum with nature 

And take her medicine, too. 
Where you can see the sunrise 

Get ready just to spill, 
Her rosy blushing blushes 

On the Morning Glory hills. 

Go up the far-famed Yellowstone — 

A wonderland you'll find; 
And up the Stillwater valley 

Is another not far behind. 
Here you can trace by the light of day 

The freaks of a Master hand, 
And you can see by the starlit sky 

He still is in command — 
When a splash of mystic beauty 

Over all the landscape spills. 
And the sun shines in her splendor 

On the Morning Glory hills. 



A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 191 



To the Public. 



I wish to say that I have three quite large books 
ready for pubhcation : ''Rhymes From the Rangeland 
Under the Sunny Blue Skies of the Western Plains, 
Mountains and Foothills/' etc. ; "Away Out West Be- 
hind the Bars, Or the Shadows of the Great Stone 
Corral at Deer Lodge, Mont." (in two volumes), each 
one complete in itself. 

I tried to find a publisher in the West whO' worked 
on a royalty basis, but could find none, so I concluded 
to get out a small, cheap edition, without many illustra- 
tions, until I could do better. 

You will notice that I have been up against the real 
thing. I was sent to the penitentiary for five years, 
charged with killing a steer. 

During that time my wife got a divorce from me, 
gathered up the stuff and, like the Prodigal Son, went 
into a far country. I have never seen her since I have 
been released from prison or any of the children. I 
traveled through Idaho, Utah, Nevada, California and 
Oregon, with the hope of finding her and being with 
her, but to no avail. I did not succeed, so I returned 
again to Montana. But somewhere toward the sun- 
kissed hills of the Pacific slope roams the wife that I 
loved so well. 

I hope to get my other books out as soon as I can, 
and trust you may read them and be benefited by them. 
In them I have told you what prison life is as I found 
it at Deer Lodge, Mont., within that great stone corral. 
I tell you of the divorce evil and what it did to me ; how 
I hate the cruel monster, etc. You will find these books 
interesting and instructive from start to finish. In 
prose and poetry. 

Yours very sincerely. 

The Author. 



DEC 20 1912 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

lililliliilllililllH^ 

018 603 421 1 






;;,;;m1i';. 









,.'::fi;ii; 






